


Mirror, Mirror

by ImprobableDreams900



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental declaration of love, Action, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Betrayal, Dark, Hell, Hellhounds, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Parallel Universe - Evil, Psychological Trauma, Suspense, Torture, Violence, Wings, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: Adam, Eve, and Crawly flee Eden through theWesternGate, and it turns out that that simple decision makes all the difference in the world...





	1. Prologue: In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I said I wasn’t going to write anything else before I left for my study abroad, but I found just a little bit more time…
> 
> PSA, parts of this get rather dark…I swear that wasn’t my intention…

It was a nice day.

All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn’t been invented yet. But clouds massing east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.

The angel of the Western Gate’s wings rustled behind her as she turned her gaze from the sunset on the still-clear horizon to the serpent behind her.

“I’m sorry,” she said rudely. “ _What_ was that?”

“I _said_ , that one went down like a lead balloon,” said the serpent.

“And what would you know about that?” snapped the angel, whose name was Ridwyth.

“I’m just saying I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest,” said the serpent. “I mean, first offense and everything. I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway.”

Ridwyth turned to face the serpent more fully, eyes narrowing. “It _is_ bad,” she stated flatly. She surveyed him for a moment, and then her hand went to the hilt of her sword. “And everyone who belongs in this Garden knows that. Which makes you the one that did the deed, doesn’t it?”

“It wasn’t personal,” said the serpent, whose name was Crawly, although he was thinking of changing it now. Crawly, he’d decided, was not _him_. “They just said, Get up there and make some trouble.”

“You’re a demon,” Ridwyth said darkly, drawing her sword. The scrape of the blade on the sheath was like nails on a chalkboard. “It is not possible for you to do good. It’s down to your…basic nature.”

Crawly eyed the cherub’s blade warily and thought vaguely that he should have fled east instead of west; the angel who’d let him in through the Eastern Gate had seemed a lot friendlier. “But you’ve got to admit,” he tried, “it’s a bit of a pantomime, isn’t it? Pointing out the Tree and saying ‘Don’t Touch’ in big letters. Not very—”

“Do not presume to know the divine plan,” Ridwyth snapped, taking a step towards Crawly. “I cast the humans from this very gate just an hour ago, and now you and your silver tongue have the audacity to tempt more angels to Fall? I do not know how you gained entrance to this Garden, serpent, but I assure you that you will not be leaving it.”

Ridwyth took another step closer, and Crawly realised with a sudden flash of fear that she intended to make good on her threat. He started backing up, serpentine coils falling over each other as the cherub advanced, flames suddenly igniting along the blade of her sword.

Crawly’s gaze slid from the divine weapon to the freedom just behind her, beyond the gate, and made a quick decision. Instead of spinning and slithering back into the relative safety of the Garden, he lowered his head to the ground and darted forward.

“Halt, serpent!” Ridwyth cried, sword whistling through the air as it arced down towards him. Crawly twisted but kept surging forward, locking his eyes on the glowing aura of the sunset. A sharp, stinging pain shot along his side and Crawly let out a strangled hiss as he shot past the angel and through the gate.

“Do not ever return here, demon!” Ridwyth shouted after him, but Crawly didn’t hear any sounds of pursuit as he plunged into the long grass. Pain was dancing along his side, and it struck deeper as he dove further into the undergrowth, eating at his very core.

Crawly put another ten minutes between himself and the Western Gate before he allowed himself to slow to a stop, flanks heaving. His side burned, but when he swivelled his head around to get a good look, it appeared that the blade had only grazed him. He was missing a few of his diamond-shaped, shimmering black scales, and there was a faint smear of blood, but apart from that he appeared unharmed. Crawly healed the injury with a small burst of power.

He was still breathing heavily, though, and there was a deeper pain, one that went beyond the condition of his corporation. He recalled that the flaming sword was divine in nature, and realised with some panic that it must be reacting with his newly infernal self. It was still a fairly minor wound, but it stung in a way that made him think it would take more than miracles to heal.

Crawly stayed there in the grass for another long minute, forcing himself to calm down as dark clouds rolled overhead and the sun winked out of sight below the horizon.

A few drops began to fall, bruising the blades of grass around him.

The wind picked up, cold and stiff, and some tiny, bright part of Crawly wished very quietly that he wasn’t so alone. The pain of Falling was still fresh and raw in his mind, and it was now joined by the searing pain in his side. He didn’t want to return to the chaos and violence of the newly forming Hell, and had hoped, rather naïvely, that he might find someone sympathetic among the remaining angels.

But their place had been made very clear, and Crawly knew it had been a wholly foolish thought in the first place. Anyone who might have been inclined to show him kindness had Fallen alongside him. The Abyss was his home now, as poor and wretched of a home as it was.

Crawly curled himself into a ball as the dark curtains marched along overhead, the rain beginning to fall in earnest. The fat, cold drops struck the grass and ground around him, and the howling of the wind filled the air.

Crawly knew there was nothing left for him in Eden or in Heaven. No one here was going to help him, so he would have to help himself.

He had brought about the Fall of Man, and for that the Abyss would thank him. He didn’t need friends in Heaven, anyway; he would have plenty in Hell. Or, maybe something better than friends: followers. There were plenty of demons in the Abyss looking to follow anyone who showed strength, and their allegiance was ripe for the taking. Crawly had always fancied himself a bit of an entrepreneur.

The rain fell harder, and Crawly fixed his mind on this promising infernal opportunity as the world turned grey and cold around him. That future was only a stone’s throw away, but, for now, Crawly only tucked his head under his coils, shivering as the ice-cold water ran over his scales, and told himself that he would never be alone like this again.

And, deep inside Crawly, the tiny spark of light that had somehow survived the Fall dwindled, flickered faintly, and, without fanfare or fuss, quietly blinked out.

It was going to be a dark and stormy night.


	2. Two Roads Diverge in a Wood

Crowley hummed _Somebody to Love_ to himself as he gently pulled the trigger on the green plastic Sainsbury’s plant mister in his hand, spraying a fine mist of droplets onto the upturned leaves in front of him. His plants were lined up before him on the windowsill of his spotless flat, their lush foliage elegantly framing the view of Georgian terraces on the opposite side of the street.

“ _Hm hm-hm hm hmm-mm,_ you’re doing very well, hoya. _Hm-hmmm hm hmm hmmmmm._ You’re looking a little sloppy today, begonia. You’d better get these buds to bloom soon, if you’d like to keep them. _Hm hm hm-hmm hmm-m-mm._ Tsk, tsk, look at this bare spot here. But these are such lovely leaves, it’d be a shame if anything happened to them. _Hm-hmm hm hmm hm-hmmm hmmmm—_ ”

Crowley paused as he caught a flash of white light out of the corner of his eye. He turned, automatically raising the mister into a defensive position; it had served him well in the past.

Crowley blinked in surprise.

Situated directly in front of his telly, completely blocking the view of anyone interested in watching a bit of national news, sat a large, glowing white circle. It was about two metres in diameter but incredibly flat, seeming to exist only in two dimensions. Hard white light radiated away from its crisply defined edge, occasionally sparkling blue and purple. The interior of the circle was perfectly static, a flat white nothing that felt _wrong_ in some indescribable way.

Crowley knew a portal to Hell when he saw one.

_Well,_ Crowley amended silently, _a portal to somewhere_. He’d once wound up in a wardrobe as Heaven contacted Aziraphale directly, and the divine portal had looked identical to the diabolic breed Crowley was used to. But, given that this one was currently sitting squarely in Crowley’s flat, he thought it more likely to be his own masters’ doing.

All this went through Crowley’s head in a fraction of a second, and then the white nothingness in the centre of the portal shivered and parted to admit a figure.

The person who’d just stepped through the portal came to a halt and looked around himself. He stopped when he turned and his eyes found Crowley, and Crowley felt his heart miss a beat in surprise.

He was looking at himself.

The man-shaped being that had just stepped through the portal was Crowley’s spitting image, right down to his slitted serpentine eyes and perfect replication of Crowley’s most recent corporation. The newcomer was wearing a slightly different suit—it was just a subtle difference in the cut of the lapels and width of the tie—and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee straight off Tony Stark’s chin, but apart from that Crowley could have been looking in a mirror.

Crowley’s eyes riveted themselves on his double’s beard, feeling that this singular difference was somehow more remarkable than the hundred similarities.

The man’s face split into a broad smile as he pivoted further to face Crowley more fully. Crowley’s gaze was quickly diverted as he saw the sword in the newcomer’s far hand. The brightly polished blade was followed by an ornate gold hilt, and Crowley realised in surprise that it was a divine sword, and a rather powerful one at that. Aziraphale had had one just like it back when he’d guarded Eden.

“H—hello,” Crowley said in surprise, still processing the events of the last two seconds and hastily trying to work out whether or not he was in danger.

“You must be Crawleigh,” the newcomer said pleasantly, taking a step towards Crowley and extending a hand. He inflected the last syllable of Crowley’s name incorrectly, drawing out a long _lay_ sound.

“Crow _ley,_ ” Crowley corrected, eying his doppelgänger with no small amount of suspicion as he uncertainly adjusted his grip on the plant mister. He hadn’t put any stock in time travel until this very moment, and was trying to decide if he could trust what was potentially a future version of himself.

“Of course,” the other Crowley allowed easily. He took a few more steps forwards, hand still extended.

“And you are…?” Crowley asked quickly, standing his ground and making no move forwards or backwards.

“A friend.”

Crowley’s doppelgänger slowed to a stop a metre or so away, leaving his hand extended.

Crowley, still with his mister held defensively in front of him, reached out with his mind and felt the stranger’s aura. He was surprised to find that it matched his own, though the longer he focussed on it, the more he felt his skin prick with unease. This other Crowley’s aura was…oddly _cold_. Crowley didn’t spend a great deal of time studying his own aura—it was somewhat difficult and fairly pointless—but he interacted with Aziraphale’s a lot, and the angel’s was always warm. Or maybe this was just what Crowley’s aura felt like to others, in the same way his recorded voice sounded alien to his own ears.

The prospect was more disconcerting than Crowley thought it should have been, and he adjusted his grip uncomfortably on the plant mister. _Maybe that’s why Aziraphale always wears jumpers_ , he thought distractedly.

The other Crowley was still holding his hand out, though, and Crowley dragged his attention back to the matter before him, filing away the worrying matter of his aura for later inspection. His double was still looking at him earnestly, and Crowley shrugged to himself.

_Well,_ he thought, _I always said I’d get more done if there were two of me._

Crowley shifted the mister to his non-dominant hand and reached out to shake his doppelgänger’s hand. He opened his mouth to ask if there were flying cars in the future, but never got the opportunity.

The moment the other Crowley’s hand closed around his own, the newcomer pulled hard, yanking Crowley off balance and sending him pitching forward.

Crowley saw the flash of light off a blade out of the corner of his eye and gave up his automatic attempt to steady himself, instead letting gravity and momentum propel him forward and onto the floor as his hand was wrenched from the grip of the other demon. Crowley collided with the legs of his coffee table and came to an abrupt halt sprawled on his spotless white carpet. He felt the plant mister bounce out of his hand.

Ignoring the faint blotches of stars in his vision, Crowley wrenched his head up to see the other Crowley striding towards him. Crowley was halfway to his feet, head ringing slightly, when his eyes fell on the sword in his double’s hand. Cold horror ran through him as he watched the blade of the sword begin to lick with flames.

The thing about divine blades is that, to light them, the wielder needs more than just a fair amount of supernatural power—he or she also needs legitimate _intent_. They need to be utterly _willing_ to use it to take a life.

Crowley’s life, in this case.

Crowley, still in the process of picking himself up off the floor, cast his eyes around for a weapon. His gaze fell on his plant mister, lying on its side only a foot from his hand, and he grabbed it. He pushed himself the rest of the way to his feet, half-unscrewed the mister’s cap, and lobbed his improvised weapon at his attacker.

The mister hit the other Crowley square in the chest and exploded open, soaking his shirt and tie and splashing off his blazer onto the blade of the sword, which spluttered but didn’t go out.

Crowley wasted no time scrambling backwards, trying to put the coffee table between them.

His attacker paused in his advance, eyebrows raised in distaste as he miracled himself dry with an impatient wave of his hand.

Crowley, stumbling backwards around his oval-shaped coffee table, spent a fraction of a second deciding on his course of action. He didn’t know where this demon had come from, why he was Crowley’s spitting image, or why he was trying to kill him, but he did know that his opponent had a flaming sword and Crowley was empty-handed. Divine blades were lit with holy fire and were as permanent an end for a demon as holy water.

_Holy water._

Crowley just barely stopped his eyes from flicking to the cartoon of the _Mona Lisa_ , behind which lay a fresh flask of holy water. He’d had Aziraphale bless it for him a couple of months ago as a replacement for the batch he’d used on Ligur. It was dangerous stuff at the best of times, but very useful in certain situations—situations like this.

Except the cartoon was across the room, and Crowley’s pristine white sofa was now between him and it.

The other Crowley resumed his advance and Crowley hastily backtracked, working his way steadily around the sofa and towards the _Mona Lisa_. Over his double’s shoulder, he saw the blank white portal beginning to shrink in size, and he realised that it would soon blink out.

“Are you sure you don’t want to—ah—talk about this?” Crowley asked quickly, backing his way towards the cartoon as his double advanced on him. His attacker was still holding the flaming sword at the ready, and his movements were distractingly supple, like he was dancing.

“No,” the other Crowley said, and Crowley realised the advantage of his fluid movements when his double struck forward with the sword with all the ferocity and unpredictability of a viper: it was nearly impossible to track where he was putting his weight.

Crowley lurched to the side just in time, and actually felt the heat of the blade on his ribs as he jumped out of range. His double was quick, pivoting and following him in a single, sinuous movement, and Crowley just kept scrambling backwards, eyes never leaving the flaming blade.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re trying to kill me?” Crowley asked hopefully, continuing to move backwards with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

“No.”

Crowley had ended up moving away from the _Mona Lisa_ when avoiding the blade of the flaming sword, and the door to his flat was on his right now, only a metre away.

“Not much of a—ah—conversationalist?” Crowley asked, and lunged for the door. Before his fingers could brush the knob, however, he drew back and threw himself in the opposite direction. The other Crowley fell for his feint, and the sword skidded along the surface of the door, chipping off the veneer as the flames dancing along the blade jumped higher.

Crowley fixed his eyes on the white portal, which was only a little over a metre wide now and shrinking in diameter.

He knew he didn’t have enough time to fetch the holy water. Opening the safe alone would require precious seconds he simply didn’t have. Without the holy water, Crowley had no weapon, and even his words had failed to gain him a reprieve. Which left flight.

Crowley didn’t know what this other, antagonistic duplicate of him wanted, but he intended to find out. And if he wasn’t willing to spill his secrets in a villainous monologue, then…well…Crowley would find someone who was.

“Don’t even think—” snarled the Crowley from behind him, but a moment later his voice abruptly evaporated as Crowley dove through the portal.

 

***

 

Generally speaking, Crawleigh liked change. He liked innovation and all its constructive uses. Better weapons won wars, smarter tactics outwitted opponents, and more advanced technology kept the keys to power in his hands.

But Crawleigh was used to change in small doses. He was clever—a lot cleverer than most of the pathetic creatures that called Hell home—and that meant that he was often the only one with enough presence of mind to see the potential of a new invention.

Take chemical warfare for example, or the ruthless effectiveness of the Portuguese Inquisition. Most demons were too dim to think of such deliciously vicious things themselves, but the humans were a constant well of new and terrible ideas. It was the only reason he kept them around anymore. Humanity loved to destroy itself, and Crawleigh loved warming his hands at the fire.

What Crawleigh saw before him now, however, wasn’t change as he understood it, and neither was it humanity as he understood it.

He had taken up position at the window of the room where he’d encountered his other self, and was now surveying the strange land below the window. Humans were streaming by in the street in remarkable numbers, passing each other without a single blow landed. Most of them weren’t even exchanging glances.

Of course, all the little peculiarities of this world were ultimately irrelevant. Crawleigh was here for one thing and one thing only. He moved his attention from the window, intending on turning away, and his gaze fell on the row of plants lined up along the windowsill.

Crawleigh paused, twisting his lips as though he had just tasted something particularly disgusting. Crawleigh didn’t like plants. They reminded him of Eden, and that was not a pleasant memory.

The demon pinched one of the plant’s leaves between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the softness of the dark green leaf. It was delicate and vulnerable, and it lived or died as Crawleigh decreed.

Crawleigh smiled and let a touch of his demonic power brush the plant. It began to shrivel immediately, leaves browning and crinkling as they withered under his touch, buds shrivelling as though in a drought. A moment later, it was just a brown husk. A few of the leaves broke off and fell to the soil.

“That’sss better,” Crawleigh hissed. The other plants trembled slightly in terror.

Crawleigh turned his gaze to the next plant. It was lush and beautiful, with attractive, slightly sparkly purple flowers, and Crawleigh felt his lip curl in disdain. He did not know how his counterpart fit into this universe, but so far he was disappointed. He had been expecting the portal to open into Hell, for one thing, and had been prepared to duel someone every inch as capable as himself. Instead, he’d found his double on _Earth_ , of all places, living it what appeared to be a rather unimpressive human dwelling and looking after _plants._ The other Crawleigh hadn’t even had a suitable weapon, and had fled like a coward. It was downright embarrassing; Crawleigh had a reputation to uphold.

“Your lassst massster wasss _sssoft_ ,” Crawleigh hissed to the plant with purple flowers; he didn’t know its name. “But he’sss gone now, and I don’t imagine he’ll be coming back.” Crawleigh pinched a leaf from the plant, and felt a faint rush of exhilaration as it shrivelled under his touch.

“It’s just you…and me.”

 

***

 

Crowley had spent a lot of time in Hell, and this wasn’t it.

He was in a dark cavern, and from the cold, slightly damp feeling in the air he deduced he was underground. Behind him, the portal closed soundlessly and the last of the light faded from the cavern along with it.

Crowley straightened up and didn’t move for a long moment, trying to determine if he was alone. He felt tentatively for auras, but didn’t feel any besides his own.

He cleared his throat nervously, and the sound echoed in the space. It was completely dark, without even a hint of light anywhere, but he could feel his serpentine eyes adjusting.

After a long moment, Crowley began to make out the line of the ceiling sloping over him, and when he turned he saw that the wall several metres behind him was made of brick. The smooth, dark flagstones of the floor abruptly stopped a metre behind him, leaving a wide, dark trench between it and the wall.

Crowley turned his attention back to the front and took a few tentative steps forward. His footsteps echoed.

He moved carefully through the space until he found a narrow tunnel with what looked reassuringly like a flight of stairs headed upwards.

Crowley climbed them, occasionally touching a hand to the cold stone wall beside him. The stairs terminated in another hall, this one opening up into a space with more stairs and hallways. He was still below ground; he could feel it in the air.

And that was when Crowley realised where he was. The byzantine labyrinth of stairs and hallways, that trench behind him in the cavernous room—he wasn’t just _underground_ , he was _in the Underground._ The portal had spit him out in one of London’s Tube stations.

Except London’s Tube stations were modern, well-lit, and plastered with advertising, not to mention swamped with commuters. And although Crowley must have been down here for ten minutes already, he hadn’t heard the rumble of a train or felt a quiver in the floor. And the wall under his hand was rough brick, not modern tile.

Slightly unnerved, Crowley continued through the space until he detected a slight lightening of the darkness around him. He rounded a corner and saw a swath of light dimly illuminating a stairway leading upwards. It was a faint, flat light, but it was good enough for Crowley.

He crossed to the staircase and started up it, the air growing slightly warmer and heavier around him as he ascended. He heard a faint roar coming from above him, ebbing and flowing irregularly.

A few metres later, Crowley reached a wrought iron gate. He could see sky on the other side of it, flat and grey. It was raining—that was what was causing the noise—and rather fiercely too, the water dripping down the stairs and pooling around his shoes.

Crowley miracled the gate open and walked up the rest of the steps, emerging into somewhere that he knew instinctively wasn’t Hell, but should have been.

Crumbling buildings rose around him, stones collapsed into uneven piles and scattered across the muddy ground. Everything seemed sapped of colour, the fallen bricks of the city the same dull grey as the roiling sky. The wind gusted a burst of rain in his face, and the drops were cold as they struck his skin.

Swallowing, Crowley walked out of the mouth of the Tube stairs and into the desolate street. The rain hit him immediately, drenching his shoulders and rolling under his collar. He waved a hand and the rain parted above him, darting out of his path.

Another burst of cold wind hit him next, and Crowley shivered. Behind him, branches rattled together hollowly, like bones knocking against each other in a graveyard. Crowley wrapped his arms around himself nervously and started down the uneven surface of the street.

The dilapidated buildings around him were mostly built of brick and wood, and they rose like broken teeth out of the landscape. They flitted in and out of his vision as the rain pounded down harder, the wind slamming the drops into the broken brick walls and rattling the wooden structures.

Crowley looked at the crumbling buildings around him and shivered again, this time with a memory of buildings much like these smouldering as smoke hung heavy in the air. London had been as much in ruins then as it was now, wounded by the Luftwaffe’s bombs but still fighting.

Except that, during the Blitz, London’s citizens hadn’t left her. Once the planes had turned back—and sometimes even before—the people of London had crawled out of their shelters, helped put out the fires, and cleared the streets. But there was no one in sight in this storm-tossed city. There were no signs of rebuilding in progress, and no effort had been made to clear the streets.

Crowley fought off another shiver and wondered hollowly if he was in London after all. It was hard to see anything distinctive through the curtains of rain.

An unpleasant feeling crawled up Crowley’s spine, and he remembered another city visited by destruction, and this one had had no survivors: Gomorrah. He had been lucky enough to have been tipped off by Aziraphale before Sodom was blasted from the face of the Earth, but Gomorrah had been an unanticipated second blow. Crowley had only escaped by sheer luck, and when he had padded through the city the following morning, nothing living had stirred in the soot-blackened ground.

Crowley forced his feet to continue moving, telling himself that neither Sodom nor Gomorrah had had an underground system of any sort, and the bricks beneath his shoes were too modern for that anyway.

He stepped over an old-fashioned streetlight that had fallen into the road, glass lantern smashed, and wondered bleakly how many more times he would see such great destruction visited on places where people had lived and loved.

The wind howled around him as Crowley splashed down the uneven brick surface of what had evidently once been a road, cold raindrops fighting their way around his miracled shield and flinging themselves against his jacket. After a few minutes of winding his way through the rain-drenched destruction, Crowley reached a crossroads. The buildings were slightly less demolished here, and when he looked at the corner nearest him, he saw a white, rectangular sign affixed to the side of the building.

Crowley picked his way towards it, rubble skidding underfoot as he moved his way to a clearer section of road, water streaming off the tumbled piles of bricks. Crowley felt his stomach sink as he drew near enough to get a good look at the rectangular sign through the curtains of rain.

London had signs like that. And London also had a Euston Road.

He _was_ in London. Somehow, this destruction around him was the remains of the city he’d spent the last half-millennium in.

Crowley turned nervously and surveyed the ruins around him, the storm tossing more rain against the buildings as the wind whipped around him and tore at his jacket.

Crowley didn’t know what was going on here, but he was clinging to the hope that this, somehow, wasn’t _his_ London. He remembered the other version of himself, the one sporting the ridiculous beard. The portal that his double had climbed through had opened up here, which meant that he was from this place. Perhaps this whole London belonged to some other world, one his double was a part of. This is where _he_ would have lived and loved and, from the looks of things, fought tooth and nail.

Maybe his double was a refugee of this hellish world, Crowley thought hopefully. He had only been in this destroyed London for a few minutes, but already he wanted to leave it, so maybe that version of himself was just fleeing whatever danger lurked here. That seemed like a very Crowley thing to do, but, as Crowley looked around at the dilapidated buildings surrounding him, he remembered the sword in his double’s hand, and the way the flames had licked along the blade.

Maybe that other version of himself wasn’t a refugee from this war-torn world after all—maybe he was a soldier. A warrior from this hellish place, now safe from the war but in a world where peace was the law of the land. And not particularly well-suited to it, either, given that he’d tried to kill Crowley. He’d likely have no clue what to do in the rest of Crowley’s thriving London, with the highly structured social order and all the nuanced ways you could break it and annoy people. Like wearing the wrong type of shoes to the Ritz, for instance, or—

Crowley, still working the scenario through in his head, froze. His double was currently in Crowley’s London—the same London, it so happened, that Aziraphale was in.

Crowley stared blankly across the crossroads as the rain pounded around him, and felt his breathing speed up a notch as panic began to wrap itself around his chest.

He could only think of two things that could explain what was happening right now. Either he was currently in the future, and that other Crowley had been his future self—a chilling thought—or this was some sort of parallel world. But whoever that Crowley had been, he had very clearly had no scruples with killing his alternate self. Crowley didn’t know what his double wanted or why he’d opened the portal—presuming it had been _he_ who had opened the portal—but he had seen no evidence so far that his double had benevolence on his mind.

Of course, Crowley tried reassuring himself quickly, that other Crowley had clearly been _some_ version of himself, and surely that meant he wouldn’t wish Aziraphale any harm? Crowley’s mind slipped worryingly to the pre-Arrangement days, and he swallowed nervously.

But, regardless of whether this was the future or a parallel world, this was _London_ , and that meant…

Crowley turned his gaze in the direction he knew Soho lay, and broke into a sprint.


	3. A Crime of Opportunity

The more Crawleigh inspected the items scattered around his counterpart’s residence, the less he understood.

For instance, there was a large black mirror, but it was lower than ideal and not very effective at reflecting.

Secondly, there was a bookcase filled with what at first glance appeared to be short, thin books made from some sort of hard plastic. But when he pulled one free and worked it open—this took a few moments—he saw that it was just a container for a strange round disc with a hole in the centre. His handwriting was on the disc, and it read _Soul music #128: Dishonest 18th cen. Financiers with Adulterous Priests Accompaniment_. When Crawleigh pried the disc free, he saw that the backside was shimmering and rainbow-coloured. Crawleigh decided appreciation of aesthetics was another weakness of his counterpart and shoved it back on the shelf in disgust.

There was also a rather poor drawing of a woman hanging on the wall, but apart from that the lounge was fairly devoid of possessions.

Putting the inspection of the further rooms off for a few moments more, Crawleigh miracled a small bag of soot into his hand and strode to the nearest stretch of blank wall. It took only a few minutes to make the appropriate sigil on the wall, smearing the soot over the elegant white wallpaper with two fingers. He would have constructed it on the floor, as was traditional, expect this floor was soft and springy, and made of tiny, thick threads, and not at all suitable for drawing on.

When Crawleigh had finished, he miracled the bag of soot and the residue still on his fingers out of existence.

He said the Words and a shaft of light descended, bathing him in its bright blue luminescence.

There was a moment of silence, and then the voice of the Metatron spoke. “You have used the wrong sigil.”

Crawleigh smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

“You are a demon. Please stand by as we send someone to smite you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crawleigh said easily. “I have valuable information for you.”

There was a long, suspicious pause. “We do not work with demons. Our Father cast you from His grace. You are damned. Good-bye.”

“I wish to defect.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and Crawleigh smiled.

“One moment.” The connection paused, and Crawleigh knew he was being transferred to a more secure line. The Heaven of this world, it seemed, wasn’t an inch different than his own.

After a few moments there was a faint pop and the Metatron said, “You are lying. Demons do not defect.”

“Just because one never has before,” Crawleigh said reasonably, “doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

“Heaven does not work with demons.”

“You already said that,” Crawleigh pointed out, but he knew that, though Heaven might not be interested in working with demons, the Metatron was just as partial to a favourable deal as anyone.

“I’ll tell you what,” Crawleigh continued. “Hear what I have to say, and if you don’t want to work with me by the end of it, then that’ll be that. No harm done.”

There was another pause. “I’m listening.”

Crawleigh smiled. “I understand that proper defection isn’t really an option, and I’m okay with that; I still despise all your righteous arses, to be clear. But recently Hell has…hurt me very personally, and I’m looking to pay them back in kind. I know some of Hell’s secrets, and I’m willing to spill.

“I want to meet with Michael, in person. As I said, I don’t trust any of you any more than I trust any of _them_ , so I’d like Michael to personally guarantee my safety throughout this. In return for the information I’ll be giving you, I don’t want you to send any angels after me. I won’t bother you in Heaven, and I ask you not to bother me on Earth.

“I understand that you have no reason to believe me, so let me offer you a freebie. A hundred miles east and fifteen miles south of the major western hellgate is a smaller gate. It leads to a little-known area of the third circle, and as such is very rarely used, visited, or guarded. I’d stay out of the rain once you get there, though; it’s acidic to the wings of angels.”

The frantic sound of scribbling came from the other end of the line, and Crawleigh knew his plan was going off without a hitch.

“As I said, I’d like to meet with Michael,” Crawleigh repeated. “The meeting will be on Earth, and he will come alone. We will meet at midnight in three days’ time, at a location I will choose. If Michael doesn’t come, or if he doesn’t come alone, I will not appear and I will assume we have no deal. Do we have an understanding?”

“I—uh—” said the Voice of God.

“You need time to think it over,” Crawleigh said smoothly. “I understand. I will be in touch again in two days with the location for the meeting. You can check the authenticity of the information I gave you. Is this acceptable?”

“Uh—yes. Yes, that’s fine.”

“Excellent.”

The line went abruptly dead, and Crawleigh smiled again as the light faded. This was going to be even easier than he’d hoped.

The demon turned his attention back to the row of withered plants and the window beyond them. All that was left now was finding a suitable place to meet, and maybe gaining some basic understanding of this world while he was at it. Crawleigh was a quick learner, and knowing what he was up against would lessen his disadvantage.

So Crawleigh patted himself down, took a short tour of the remainder of his double’s residence, carefully left the divine sword hidden out of view and cloaked under a powerful concealment spell above the kitchen cupboards, and strode past the slightly scorched front door and out into this strange new world.

 

***

 

Aziraphale was concerned.

To be more accurate, Aziraphale was somewhat annoyed and mildly inconvenienced, and this translated into concern.

He and Crowley had agreed to meet at St James’s Park and then walk to the Ritz as they did every Monday and Thursday afternoon, but this rainy Thursday Crowley had not arrived.

At first, Aziraphale had assumed that he was just late, which was acceptable for the first ten minutes or so—being a demon, Crowley insisted he arrive late to a certain percentage of all his engagements—but if Crowley was legitimately delayed he usually called or sent a “text.”

Aziraphale was still working on understanding these “texts,” but after several moments of poking around on the mobile telephone Crowley had given him and laboriously navigating to the correct screen (following religiously the instructions Crowley had written up for him, and which Aziraphale kept with the mobile at all times), he didn’t see any new messages.

Crowley had seemed his normal self during their Monday stroll, and also when he’d dropped by Aziraphale’s bookshop the following Tuesday, and Aziraphale didn’t remember saying anything that would have offended him, so there was no reason for the demon to be sulking and ignoring him.

Which meant that Crowley had either forgot or was in some sort of serious trouble.

Aziraphale decided the former was more likely, and after waiting around for another ten minutes listening to the rain drum on his umbrella, he went to the Ritz by himself, because Crowley’s ill manners weren’t about to stop him from getting a cream cake and some scones.

It was a perfectly peaceful dinner, but Aziraphale did admit to himself that it was a little dull, and he would have liked having someone to talk to.

Next, Aziraphale tried phoning Crowley’s mobile with his own, and thought he succeeded after one of the Ritz staff was kind enough to help him out. Crowley didn’t answer, though, and it went directly to the demon’s “voicemail,” which was just Crowley telling him that he was unavailable, and _please_ , Aziraphale, don’t claim you spoke with me later, because this is a _recording_. I am _busy_.

Now rather annoyed at the demon’s absence, Aziraphale walked home by himself and shook off his irritation at being stood up by burying his nose in one of his books.

The next day, Aziraphale didn’t hear anything more from Crowley, and his second and third attempts to phone the demon resulted in him again reaching Crowley’s voicemail.

All of this irritation, though, was quickly morphing into something alarmingly like concern. Ever since the failed attempt at the Apocalypse, Crowley had been more reliable. It wasn’t unusual for the demon to disappear off the grid for a couple of days or even a week, but he always let Aziraphale know beforehand, usually so that the angel would know to go over to his flat and water his plants.

When Crowley still hadn’t got back to him by the following day, Aziraphale decided to drop by Crowley’s flat and see if the demon had left him a note, or if he was there himself. It was entirely possible the demon had fallen asleep and been enjoying it so much that he’d simply forgotten to wake up later.

Aziraphale walked the fifteen minutes to Crowley’s Mayfair flat and frowned when he saw the Bentley parked neatly in front of the building, apparently completely unharmed. Aziraphale miracled his way past the security at the building’s entrance and took the lift to the sixth floor.

Aziraphale knocked on the sleek black door to Crowley’s flat. “Crowley?” he called. “Are you in there?” Given that the Bentley was outside, Aziraphale thought it likely that he was, but it wasn’t inconceivable that Crowley had chosen to walk somewhere nearby and just never returned.

There was a long moment of silence, and Aziraphale was about to knock again when the door swung open.

And there Crowley was, looking hale and hearty and not at all like he had a good reason to be forgetting his appointments. He _was_ sporting a rather absurd-looking goatee, though.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said sternly, his concern quickly turning back into mild annoyance, “where have you been?”

Crowley blinked at him for a moment, expression guarded. “Sorry?”

Aziraphale sighed and pushed the door open. Evidently he wasn’t going to be getting an apology anytime soon. He strode past Crowley into the demon’s spotless designer flat, sleek white furniture and wallpaper in sharp contrast to the black television, sound system, and the legs of the coffee table.

“You didn’t meet me at St James’s,” Aziraphale complained, dropping onto Crowley’s sofa and feeling himself sink several inches. “I even looked at that infernal piece of technology you gave me.”

Crowley did not immediately respond, and Aziraphale turned his gaze back to Crowley to see the demon still standing by the open door, one hand out of sight behind it.

Aziraphale sighed and pushed himself back to his feet. “Look, my dear, if you’re busy, that’s fine, but do please let me know. I was waiting in the rain.”

Something in Crowley seemed to shift, and he ran a hand down the edge of the door and then quickly closed it. “Ah, yes, sorry about that,” he said, turning his back on Aziraphale and heading into the kitchen.

Aziraphale waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Sighing again, Aziraphale moved to follow Crowley. Before he could, the demon reappeared at the doorway to the kitchen, rubbing his hands together idly.

Despite the easy movement, Crowley’s shoulders were tense, and Aziraphale slowed. His friend’s serpentine eyes tracked Aziraphale’s every movement as the angel drew to a stop a metre or so away. Crowley’s gaze was oddly calculating, and a feeling of unease crawled across Aziraphale’s skin.

“I was busy,” Crowley offered, voice untroubled. “Last-minute. Infernal wiles and all that.”

Aziraphale thought this was a rather flimsy excuse, but he let it slide. “What’s the story behind the beard?” he asked instead. The perfectly trimmed goatee sort of worked with Crowley’s sleek millionaire look, but Aziraphale hadn’t seen him with facial hair in so long that it was a bit of an abrupt change. And evidently he’d miracled it there, because it wouldn’t have had time to grow naturally since the last time Aziraphale had seen him.

“Hm? Oh, just a bit of variety,” Crowley said, raising a hand self-consciously.

“Well, would you like to go to the Ritz this afternoon?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. Whatever infernal wiles Crowley had evidently been up to earlier, he was clearly done with them now.

“I’d rather not,” Crowley said, moving past Aziraphale.

“No?” Aziraphale asked, disappointed. Crowley was usually the one suggesting they go out, and it was rare of Crowley to turn down Aziraphale’s offers, particularly if he didn’t have anything better to do.

“Like I said, I’m busy,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale frowned and followed Crowley back into the lounge. This time, Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the row of plants near the window.

“Oh no, your poor plants!” Aziraphale exclaimed, hurrying past Crowley and laying a horrified hand on one of their pots. Crowley’s dozen plants were brown and withered, only dry husks of their former selves. This seemed nigh on impossible, because Aziraphale had seen them just a few days ago, and they’d been as lush and terrified as always. In fact, they still seemed terrified. “What happened?”

“What…? Oh. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t _matter?_ ” Aziraphale echoed in disbelief. He turned and stared at the demon.

“They’re just plants,” Crowley said, looking away.

Aziraphale felt his concern return in full force, and he quickly crossed to Crowley and laid a gentle hand on his friend’s elbow. “Something’s wrong, my dear, isn’t it?”

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale could feel the tenseness of his arm under his touch. Crowley opened his mouth, hesitated a long moment, and flicked his eyes up to Aziraphale’s. “Actually,” he said, voice halting, “yes.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked nervously. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Crowley seemed to debate for a moment how much he wanted to tell Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had a sinking feeling that something significant must have occurred.

“Is it Hell?” Aziraphale prompted worriedly.

Crowley hesitated and nodded.

“That was why you missed our meeting,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded again.

“Oh, my dear, you should have said something,” Aziraphale said, drawing Crowley over to the sofa by the elbow so they could sit down. “What did they want?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “It’s not _quite_ Hell,” he clarified, “but there’s a demon after me.”

Aziraphale took a fortifying breath and extended his senses just in case, searching for any demonic intruders. Crowley stiffened beside him, but Aziraphale didn’t sense anyone else in the immediate vicinity. Crowley’s aura did seem a little colder and muddier than normal, though, a tight knot of thought and emotion. Aziraphale interpreted this to mean that Crowley was very worried, and he patted the demon reassuringly on the hand.

“Is it Hastur?” Aziraphale guessed.

Beside him, Crowley grimaced. “ _Hastur?_ ” he repeated, and then added, “Er, yes. …Hastur.”

Aziraphale nodded automatically, turning the problem over in his mind. Hastur was a Duke of Hell, and if he was after Crowley then they would need to take precautions immediately. “What do you want to do?” Aziraphale asked. “I can bless some more holy water if you like.”

Crowley quickly shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. There was…actually something else I had in mind.”

Aziraphale turned his attention fully to his friend. “What’s that?”

“Well,” Crowley said, flicking his gaze down to the coffee table, “there’s this weapon in Hell that I think would be able to kill him. A sword.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley in surprise. “A sword?” he echoed.

“It’s enchanted,” Crowley explained, turning his head up and meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “It was forged in the fires of Hell and can kill any demon, permanently.”

“But why can’t we just use holy water?” Aziraphale asked, puzzled. “It worked last time.”

“Well, yes,” Crowley allowed, turning his gaze back to his elegant coffee table, “but we can’t do it twice, can we?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask why not, and then put together what Crowley was saying. “Ah,” he said. “Because Hastur would be expecting it, you mean?”

“Precisely!” Crowley agreed, sounding, oddly, a little relieved. “But this sword will do the trick, and he’ll never see it coming. It’s not very deep into Hell, either. Most demons don’t even know it exists.”

“Then how do you know about it?” Aziraphale asked curiously.

“Connections,” Crowley said vaguely, waving his hand. “You know me.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But why can’t we use a divine blade? Wouldn’t it do the same thing?”

A slightly pained look came over Crowley’s face, but it was quickly wiped away. “And where would we find one of those? I don’t suppose you have one just lying around?”

Aziraphale admitted to himself that this was a fair point. “You know I don’t have mine anymore. And Heaven doesn’t exactly hand them out anymore.”

Crowley gestured towards Aziraphale to emphasise the point the angel had just made. “Which is why we need this diabolical sword. It’s the only one outside of Hell’s armoury, which I can’t get into any easier than you can Heaven’s.”

“So you’re going to go get this sword?” Aziraphale asked. “Is it safe?”

“Well,” Crowley said, turning his gaze back to Aziraphale. “I’ve been thinking about that.” He leaned a little closer and covered the nearer of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “The reason no demon’s already taken this sword is that it’s sealed in a chamber in the second circle with a lock that no demon can open.”

“That’s…unusual,” Aziraphale said, somewhat preoccupied with the steady warmth of Crowley’s hand on his own.

“Since it does kill demons, and demons are known for being an untrustworthy lot,” Crowley pointed out, “I suppose it made sense at the time. But then I thought, all you’d need is for someone who’s not a demon to open the lock.” Crowley’s hand tightened slightly around Aziraphale’s. “Like an angel.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley sharply and met the demon’s golden, serpentine eyes. He appeared to be perfectly serious, his gaze level and clear.

“You…want me to steal a sword from Hell for you,” Aziraphale repeated slowly, just to make sure he understood.

“ _With_ me,” Crowley corrected. “I’m coming too. And it’s not very far into Hell; I can show you exactly where it is. And once you’ve broken the lock, I’m sure it’ll go very quickly.”

“Are you _certain_ we can’t just use holy water?”

Crowley shook his head. “Hastur’s smart,” he said. “He’ll have seen it coming and prepared for it. The sword is the best way to catch him off guard.”

“But how would we even get in?” Aziraphale asked. “If you hadn’t noticed, I _am_ an angel.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Crowley said, shifting a little closer on the sofa and adjusting his grip on Aziraphale’s hand. “I know a back way in that’ll take us right to where we want to be in the second circle. That’s what I’ve been doing these last few days: making sure the way is safe.”

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley _did_ tend to know best where Below and its denizens were concerned, and he was certain that Crowley had thought through all his options carefully.

“Please,” Crowley said, one thumb sweeping light arcs over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if there was any other way.”

Aziraphale looked up in surprise and met Crowley’s gaze. There was a desperation in the demon’s beautiful eyes that he rarely saw, and he knew that he could have never refused Crowley his help.

Aziraphale sighed and pressed Crowley’s hand between his own. “Of course, my dear. Anything.”


	4. The Serpent

After a few minutes of splashing his way through the pothole-riddled streets and feeling his feet growing steadily more soaked, Crowley decided that, despite the storm, it would be faster to travel by air. He unravelled his wings, extended and strengthened the invisible wall around him that deflected the raindrops, and threw himself into the air, wings catching a cold gust of wind.

The storm raged more fiercely as Crowley was swept above the crumbling roofline, and he quickly gained altitude. He hastily angled his wings south and struggled to find a wind current that was going in the right direction. He found one after a few long moments of tearing himself free of eastbound currents, and let it carry him higher and higher. The rain sped past him, darkening his vision into a blur of grey lines.

The air was cold and charged around him, and Crowley suddenly doubted the wisdom of leaving the ground as he felt every one of his feathers stand on end. A heartbeat later, there was a flash of incredibly bright light off to his right and Crowley dove away from it instinctively, cranking in his wings to make a smaller target. At nearly the same instant, there was a terrific crash from all around him, and it sounded like the clouds themselves were tearing apart.

As Crowley shot away from the bolt of lightning, he found himself swept into a hot current of air. Before he could pull out of it, he felt himself propelled higher and higher, the rooftops shrinking beneath him as the rain swallowed them.

With a tremendous effort, shoulders protesting the abuse, Crowley cranked his wings in and dove out of the current. They were snapped open almost immediately by another short burst of air, and for a moment Crowley hung in the air, sucking in a deep breath.

London sprawled beneath him, dark and indistinct shapes in the rain-torn twilight.

Crowley had always liked looking at London from above. The bright, pulsing arteries of the streets jammed with traffic were visible, and the artificial boundaries of the boroughs were outlined only by gleaming lines of city lights. The Thames wound through it all, a flat brown or green line crisscrossed with bridges and yet still completely heedless of the city that had sprung up around its banks.

But as Crowley dropped a little lower, the rain parting momentarily around him, he felt horror spread through him at the sight laid out beneath him. London was nearly unrecognisable.

Great swaths of the city were just jagged black voids, and there wasn’t a single sodium light in sight. The A4200 and A40 weren’t even visible, and the Shard, the London Eye, and several of the bridges were nowhere to be seen. The Thames itself appeared to be the only thing unchanged, as serpentine a force of nature as ever, cold and grey and uncompromising.

A huge gust of wind slammed into Crowley and he was whisked west, wings spreading to catch the lift. The rain pounded harder against his miracled shield, and Crowley could feel it begin to weaken as droplets caught in his feathers.

Crowley locked his eyes on where he knew Soho must be and worked his way towards it, wings straining against the wind. A fresh fork of lightning speared through the air somewhere far ahead of him, imprinting itself on Crowley’s retinas as the air shook around him with the answering crash of thunder.

The wind kept trying to blow him off course, but after a long couple of minutes Crowley was able to get low enough over Soho to try to pick out Aziraphale’s bookshop. His eyes latched onto the correct street, and he descended further.

There was another sharp burst of wind as Crowley neared street level, trying to whisk him first back up and then straight down. Crowley gave up trying to fight it, folding in his exhausted wings sooner than he probably should have as his feet slammed hard into the brick surface of the road. Crowley’s legs collapsed under the force of the impact, and he only barely managed to keep himself from pitching forward into a huge puddle. A wave of static bounced over Crowley’s vision as the g-forces rolled over him, and he felt his invisible shield begin to fragment further as his concentration faltered, rain peppering his shoulders. Once his vision cleared, he forced himself to his shaking feet, let his wings melt out of sight, and took in the place where Aziraphale’s bookshop should have been.

The building looked largely the same, except it was missing most of the top floor, the roof collapsed over the crumbling walls. The shop itself was dark and looked utterly deserted, and the windows were all shattered, jagged glass teeth lining the frames.

Crowley approached hesitantly, looking up at where the sign above the broken door read “The Hung Swan” in very faded red paint.

Crowley’s eyes flicked back down to the door as he stepped closer, giving up on his tattered shield as more rain slipped through the cracks and rolled through his hair. Crowley stepped under the scant shelter of the threshold and pushed the shattered remains of the door open with a hand.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called hesitantly as the door creaked open.

There was no reply, and Crowley slowly made his way into the darkened shop. Instead of rows of bookshelves, the space was dotted with a few round tables, most of them broken or upended. A stool with a missing leg lay on its side in front of him, the splintered wood seeming to reach out towards him.

“Hello?” Crowley called quietly as the door swung mostly shut behind him. He padded further into the space, glass crunching under his shoes. “Is anyone there?”

His voice echoed eerily in the too-quiet space, but again there was no response beyond the roar of the storm outside and the patter of rainwater slipping through the floorboards of the ceiling and dripping onto the floor.

Crowley reached the rear of the shop and carefully climbed the worn stairs, skin prickling with unease.

“Aziraphale? Angel?” he called again as he reached the upper floor. A large portion of the roof was collapsed to his right, and Crowley shivered as a cold wind swept through the remaining portion of the storey. Rain pooled on the warped floorboards and in every available, upturned crevice, spilling over and splashing onto the floor.

Crowley picked his way through the wreckage, being careful to mind his step in case any of the floorboards felt like giving way. There was no sign of any of his or Aziraphale’s things, and Crowley felt a bizarre burst of relief.

If he’d found the remains of the bookshop as Aziraphale had left it, then that would have suggested quite strongly that this world lay in their future. Since that wasn’t the case, regardless of whether Aziraphale had moved to somewhere else or simply never lived here at all, that meant that the angel was probably holed up somewhere else entirely, safe and sound.

Crowley let out a heavy breath and poked halfheartedly with his toe at a soggy length of cloth lying over a broken piece of furniture.

It was then that, from somewhere beneath Crowley, there came the sound of something snapping.

Crowley froze, thinking the floorboards had decided to crack after all, but when he cautiously shifted his weight the floor seemed solid enough beneath his feet.

There was another small sound from beneath him, and he realised that the noise must have come from the ground floor.

Crowley cast his eyes around for a weapon and pried a half-rotten length of timber free from a pile of rubble as quietly as he could. It was heavier than it looked, but Crowley held it like a sword in front of him as he advanced on the top of the stairs, rain soaking through his jacket as he tried to keep his footsteps as silent as possible on the warped floorboards.

Crowley reached the stairs without incident and began to carefully creep down them. Despite his best efforts, they creaked under his weight, and he grimaced. He knew he was probably given away, but continued creeping down the stairs just in case.

He was halfway down the stairwell when a thought occurred to him. As unlikely as it was, he found himself wondering hopefully if Aziraphale would be waiting for him downstairs. He hadn’t seen another living soul in the whole city, but this _was_ Aziraphale’s bookshop—or what was left of it.

Crowley reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped on the last step, casting his gaze around the darkened tavern. There was no one in sight.

“Zira?” Crowley called hesitantly, nervously adjusting his grip on the length of timber in his hands.

The building rattled in the wind, the rain pounded on the ceiling, and lines of water dripped onto the floor, but there was no other response.

Crowley sighed and stepped off the stairs, beginning to lower the piece of timber in his grip.

There was a faint creak to his left, followed by a flash of silver in the corner of his eye.

Crowley leapt backwards, yanking the length of timber back into a defensive position, and stumbled as he tripped on the bottom step. A heartbeat later, there was another flash of silver and Crowley’s improvised weapon shuddered in his hands as the blade of a sword lodged itself firmly in the splintered wooden beam.

Crowley blinked at it in surprise and tried to stumble further backwards, only succeeding in falling backwards onto the stairs, scraping one elbow on the edge of a step as he clumsily caught himself. It was then that the sword’s owner arrived in his line of sight. She was wearing something dark, and her blonde hair and light-coloured wings were all Crowley could make out in the half-light.

He could tell by her aura that she was an angel, but a fraction of a second was all it took Crowley to recognise that she wasn’t Aziraphale. He felt a flash of disappointment, followed by a surge of belated adrenaline as he processed that he’d have to defend himself.

Crowley, still half-sprawled on the stairs, quickly twisted the piece of timber in his hand in an attempt to wrench the hilt of the sword from his attacker’s grasp. A little to his surprise, this worked perfectly, and the hilt of the sword slammed into the corner of the wall of the stairwell.

The angel lunged after the hilt, and Crowley, not in a good position to grab the sword himself, hastily tossed the piece of timber away, the blade of the sword still lodged in its side.

Given Crowley’s poor angle, he wasn’t able to throw it very far, but the angel lurched after it anyway, and Crowley saw his opening.

He pushed himself to his feet, elbow still smarting, and sprinted for the door. Halfway there, eyes still adjusting to the semidarkness, he felt his foot catch on something and he crashed forward and slammed face-first into the floor.

All the air was knocked from Crowley’s lungs, and he spent a moment just gasping breathlessly as he forced himself shakily to his hands and knees. He tried to scramble to his feet and bolt for the door, but his ankle was twisted and only moved a few inches. Crowley glanced over his shoulder and swore loudly when he saw that he’d got it stuck in the broken three-legged stool. Beyond that, he saw the angel yanking her sword free from the piece of timber.

Crowley kicked hard at the stool with his other foot, and on his third strike it broke. Crowley pulled himself free, scrambled to his feet, and almost fell over again as his ankle refused to support him.

Crowley swore again and started limping hastily towards the exit, unwilling to spend the necessary time and concentration on healing his ankle right now.

He heard a crunch of glass from not far behind him, and knew that the angel would reach him before he gained the relative safety of the street.

Crowley made a split-second decision and threw himself sideways, collapsing into a clumsy ball and rolling gracelessly over a patch of shattered glass. Crowley twisted on the floor until he had the angel’s swiftly moving feet in his line of sight, and made a sharp motion with his hand. The stool he’d just tripped over shifted half a metre to the side and collided with the shins of the angel as she sprinted towards him.

She lost her footing and slammed into the floor only a metre or two away.

Her sword hand was very close to Crowley, and the demon hastily crawled over and tore the sword from her grip.

Crowley scrambled to his feet again and limped backwards until he was leaning against the wall near the tavern’s door. He put all his weight on his good foot and spent a few seconds channelling healing power into his twisted ankle as the angel started to gain her feet.

“Stay where you are,” Crowley commanded, pointing the sword in her direction as threateningly as he could.

The angel froze and looked up at him slowly, still only halfway to her feet.

She stayed frozen there for a moment and then abruptly dropped back into a sitting position and fixed her gaze somewhere around Crowley’s shins. She sniffled, and Crowley realised with surprised confusion that she was simultaneously crying and trying very hard not to.

“Er,” said Crowley, wondering if this was some sort of ploy. He kept the sword at the ready, flexing his fingers nervously on the hilt.

The angel wiped angrily at her cheeks with the back of her hand and looked up to meet Crowley’s gaze. Her expression went through several emotions in quick succession and settled on frustrated defiance.

“Slay me, Serpent, but two more will replace me.”

“Er,” said Crowley again, who didn’t like the sound of that.

“You will be defeated, and the Earth shall be freed from your evil grip. Peace shall reign again; this shall come to pass.”

Crowley adjusted his grip on the sword and decided it was time to get some answers. “Why are you trying to kill me?” he demanded.

The angel laughed, a little hysterically, and Crowley frowned at her. “Who on this godforsaken rock _isn’t_ trying to?”

“Godforsaken?” Crowley echoed; he was surprised an angel would use the word.

The angel sniffled. “He will return to strike you down,” she proclaimed. “And when He does, the wicked shall tremble.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Crowley pointed out. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

“Because you destroyed the world, that’s why,” the angel snapped, as though she thought she shouldn’t have needed to explain this to him. “Because our Father’s work is a smoking ruin, and you lit the damn match.”

Crowley looked down at her in horror.

“Because you have slain my brothers and sisters,” the angel continued bravely, “and I am here to avenge their deaths.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” Crowley offered hopefully.

The angel’s frustrated expression paused and she blinked up at him. “What?”

“This—this—destroyer of worlds or whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me.”

She frowned at him. “But you are Crawleigh, Serpent of Eden, Emperor of the Damned, Commander of the Legions of the Abyss, are you not?”

“Er,” said Crowley, whose mouth had suddenly gone very dry, “yes to the serpent part. Did you say _Emperor of the Damned?_ ”

“But…you—you _are_ him,” the angel said, sounding confused and a little like she thought this was a trick. “I’d know your aura anywhere. Everyone does.”

“Do they?” Crowley asked nervously.

“You made sure of it.” The angel tilted her head at him slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “But why are you playing with me like this, Serpent? Just smite me and be done with it.”

Crowley sighed and lowered the sword. “I’m not going to kill you.”

The angel eyed the lowered sword and slowly made her way to her feet. “Good,” she said, “because I’m going to kill you.”

She leapt towards him, clearly intent on throttling him with her bare hands if necessary, but Crowley ducked out of the way just in time. She grabbed onto his arm and Crowley hissed and spun on his heel, bringing the sword back around until she released him.

She threw herself at Crowley again, evidently trying to tackle him to the ground, but Crowley just planted his feet and pushed back, keeping the flat of the sword between them, and kicked out her shins from under her.

The angel hit the floor again, and this time Crowley retreated a safe distance, sword at the ready. “Look, I don’t want to kill you, okay? And I’m not the Emperor of Hell or whatever.”

The angel sucked in a deep breath but fixed her gaze back on him, hatred in her eyes.

“Please,” Crowley said. “Just—just listen for a moment.”

The angels narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t move from her spot sprawled on the floor.

Crowley took a deep breath and took her silence as leave to continue. “My name’s Crowley, and I’m not the emperor of anything, but I think I know who you’re looking for.”

The angel glowered at him.

“This other bloke—he looks just like me, right? Except he has a beard.” Crowley drew his hand across his chin, miming a goatee.

The angel blinked at him suspiciously. “Yes. Crawleigh.”

“Well, I’m Crow _ley_ ,” Crowley said again, “and I think I’m from a parallel universe.”

The angel stared at him, eyes guarded. “What deception is this, Serpent?”

Crowley sighed and lowered the sword, but kept himself a healthy distance from the angel in case she planned on lunging after him again. “It’s not a deception. I’m not from this world. The Earth— _my_ Earth—it’s not like this. It’s not been destroyed, for one thing. The people are happy—well, as happy as people can be—and the world’s got its problems, certainly, but it’s nothing like this. I’m a demon stationed on Earth to tempt humanity, but to be honest I haven’t done anything Hell would actually be proud of in centuries.”

The angel blinked at him again, but she looked a little less certain.

“What’s your name?” Crowley asked.

The angel shifted on the floor, glass crunching under her. “Sandelaphon,” she admitted.

“Sandelaphon,” Crowley repeated, moving towards her. He transferred the sword to his other hand and reached down with his dominant, offering to help her up. “Well, Sandy, how about we sit down and talk about this? We can promise not to kill each other.”

Sandelaphon blinked up at him in surprise, and he could tell that she still thought this was some sort of trick. But, after a moment of eyeing his offered hand warily, she took it and allowed Crowley to draw her to her feet.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Crowley asked, relieved that the situation had been salvaged. He walked over to the nearest upright table and fished around underneath it for an intact chair. He found one that was missing half of its back, brought it up to the table, and sat down.

Sandelaphon hadn’t moved from where he’d helped her to her feet, and Crowley figured she was considering bolting. He let her consider it.

Then her curiosity got the better of her, and she slowly walked over and drew up a chair herself.

Crowley showed her the sword in his hand and then deliberately set it behind him on the floor, the blade dropping onto the scuffed floorboards with a slight thump. It was easily out of his reach, but if she made a move Crowley would certainly reach it first.

“Now,” Crowley said, setting his elbows on the table, which had two large fissures in its rough wooden surface, “I’ll tell you about my world if you’ll tell me about yours.”

Sandelaphon looked at him shrewdly. “If this is a ploy to get information on Heaven, I won’t talk.”

“I don’t need anything specific,” Crowley reassured her. “Broad strokes is fine.”

Sandelaphon frowned at him.

Crowley sighed and shifted his arms, wincing as his hurt elbow scraped along the wood. He took a moment to heal it. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m really not him. How about you only tell me things I—or Crawleigh—already knows. That way, if I _am_ lying, you’re not telling me anything new and you can just disregard everything I say as utter rubbish. No harm done.”

She continued frowning at him, but less severely.

“You don’t have anything to lose,” Crowley pointed out. “And why would I be sitting here if I _wasn’t_ telling the truth? Though if you do think I’m lying, you can leave right now. I won’t hurt you.”

Sandelaphon looked at him levelly for a long moment, but didn’t move from her chair.

Crowley spread his hands slightly, as though showing her the facts of the situation.

“Is this what you do?” she asked. “In…your world? Angels and demons sitting at a table, talking?”

Crowley gave her a small smile. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what we do. Or, it’s what I do, at least.” Crowley adjusted his elbows nervously. “I have a…well, I suppose you could call him a friend…back home. An angel named Aziraphale. This place” —Crowley gestured around them, at the tavern— “it’s a bookshop in my world, and Aziraphale lives here.”

Sandelaphon looked at him in guarded surprise. “You were looking for him.”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed. “I was hoping he might be here, whatever version of him there is in this universe. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of an angel named Aziraphale?”

Sandelaphon looked at him carefully, evidently wondering if this was a piece of information she shouldn’t divulge.

“Please,” Crowley said. “I know I said I wasn’t going to ask specifics, but I just want to know if he’s all right.” Actually, Crowley wasn’t sure why he was asking at all. He knew that whatever Aziraphale existed in this universe wasn’t _his_ Aziraphale, but, somehow, that didn’t seem to matter. And, if anyone in this devastated world would be inclined to offer him help, he felt certain that it would be Aziraphale.

“I haven’t heard of an angel by that name,” Sandelaphon said after a long moment.

Crowley let out a breath, not sure whether that should make him more or less worried. “He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate in Eden,” Crowley added, in case that would jog her memory. “That was where I met him.”

Sandelaphon took a sharp breath. “Oh! The Guardian of the Eastern Gate—I remember him.”

Crowley brightened. “Is he all right? Do you know where I could find him?”

Sandelaphon’s gaze roved back to Crowley, and she seemed a little confused. “Oh, no, sorry—he’s dead.”

Crowley felt something heavy settle into the pit of his stomach.

“You—er—you killed him,” Sandelaphon added. “But…surely you knew that?”

Icy fingers wrapped themselves around Crowley’s insides, and his mouth became very dry. “I—what?”

“He was the first angel to die after the Fall,” Sandelaphon said, sounding a little puzzled. “It…sparked your whole career, I suppose. Or…Crawleigh’s career. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate had been sent to Earth as punishment for letting the Serpent into the Garden, and that’s where Crawleigh killed him. Heaven sent another angel to replace him and avenge his death, but…Crawleigh killed her too. And the next replacement. And…the next.”

Crowley stared at her in horror. “But…how is he still alive?” he stammered. “If Heaven kept sending angels after him?” He had an unpleasant feeling he already knew the answer.

Sandelaphon shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It’s history,” she said simply. “He just…kept winning. He gathered a following in Hell and became a serious threat. Heaven sent better and better warriors, but even the ones who were more powerful than him just…never came back.”

Crowley stared at her, horrified. “You’re saying I _killed_ —”

“Hundreds of angels,” Sandelaphon confirmed, sounding like she was dredging up an unpleasant memory. “The best of the best. And then they…ran out of the best.”

Crowley put that together, and something clicked in his mind. “That’s why you’re here,” he guessed hollowly. “You’re trying to stop me. Heaven sent you.”

Sandelaphon nodded shortly and looked down at the cracked surface of the table. “You might have noticed that I’m not a warrior. We ran out ages ago.”

“You really can’t fight,” Crowley noted apologetically, still trying to process what the angel had told him.

Sandelaphon nodded and shrugged. “I’m expendable. I think the archangels are just trying to keep legitimate loses to a minimum, to be honest. I didn’t stand a chance, and was never supposed to.” She stared down at the table morosely.

“Well, you’re still alive, right?” Crowley said with slightly forced cheer. “It’s a good thing you ran into me instead of him.”

Sandelaphon’s mouth twisted. “I suppose.”

“You mentioned the archangels,” Crowley remembered. “Why haven’t they tried to stop…Crawleigh?”

“They did. We all did.”

“But…what happened?” Crowley asked, puzzled. Even if he had somehow grown as truly evil as Hastur or Ligur, Crowley couldn’t imagine he’d fare well against an archangel. He just wasn’t powerful enough.

“He slew Michael,” Sandelaphon said flatly, “and Gabriel. And Azrael and Jophiel and Uriel.”

Crowley stared at her, feeling his heart stop beating for a moment. “That’s—that’s not possible.”

Sandelaphon gave a short, bitter laugh. “That’s what we thought. It’s just Raphael and Jerahmiel left. They’ve barricaded themselves in Heaven. Every five years, they send down an angel to challenge Crawleigh, but…” She trailed off.

“Every _five years?_ ” Crowley echoed, incredulous. He remembered something Sandelaphon had said a few moments ago. “Wait; how long did you say this has been going on for?”

“We abandoned the Earth three hundred years ago,” Sandelaphon said bleakly. “I used to love the Earth, but…there’s so little left.”

“Hold on,” Crowley said, struggling to process what she was implying. “You’re saying that, in this backwards universe, I killed not only Aziraphale but _Michael himself_ , and then went on to be—what? Emperor of Hell, and Below’s been running loose over Earth since the bloody _eighteenth century?”_

Sandelaphon let out a breath and nodded.

Crowley stood up, heart pounding in his chest. “I need to get out of here.”

Crowley’s mind was flashing back to his own universe, and the fact that _that_ abomination of himself was running wild across _his_ planet. Crowley remembered Aziraphale, sitting safe and sound in his bookshop, and felt his blood run cold.

“I need to get back to my world,” Crowley said, beginning to pace nervously across the scattered debris of the tavern. “That—that—Crawleigh, or whatever he’s calling himself—I saw him. I was in my flat, minding my own business, and then this white portal thing just opened up and he came through. He tried to kill me, so I jumped through the portal as it was about to close. Because I thought, okay, glowing white portal, it’s going to be a doorway to Hell, right? But _no_ , it’s this—this— _God_.”

Crowley ground to a halt by his chair, staring down at Sandelaphon’s sword on the floor.

“He’s going to destroy my world, isn’t he?”

“Are you sure it was him?” Sandelaphon asked, not answering his question.

Crowley shrugged helplessly. “Maybe? He didn’t seem very friendly, and I don’t know who else it could have been.”

“You said he opened a portal,” Sandelaphon prompted. “Do you know how he did it?”

Crowley shrugged again and turned his gaze to where Sandelaphon was still seated at the table. “I don’t know. Lor—Sa—Heaven knows I haven’t the faintest clue how to open bloody portals between—between—alternate universes or something.”

“Do you think he’s planning on coming back?” She sounded almost hopeful, but the thought chilled Crowley to the bone.

“God, I hope so. Not that your world isn’t fine and dandy,” he added hastily, “but clearly Crawleigh knows how to make a portal between our worlds, so he might be my only way back.”

 _Back._ For the first time, Crowley let himself entertain the notion that he might be trapped in this world indefinitely. There was a cold pang in his chest, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe as the full implications sank in. He remembered the last time he had seen Aziraphale, when the angel had good-naturedly waved him off as Crowley had pushed his way through the bookshop door and out into the street, and wished fervently that he had said something more than ‘Ciao.’

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Crowley dragged his mind back to the present, hands working nervously. “No, he didn’t.” What _did_ the other version of himself want? What could the Emperor of Hell possibly want with Crowley’s own world?

Though, that brought up another question.

Crowley pivoted. “What about Lucifer? He’s in this universe, right? If Crawleigh’s Emperor of Hell and all, what happened to him? And the Dukes?”

“The Dukes work for Crawleigh,” Sandelaphon said. “And no one’s seen Lucifer in millennia.”

“Oh, _somebody_ ,” Crowley said, and sat back down.

“Rumour has it he’s still alive, though,” Sandelaphon said helpfully. “We think Crawleigh likes to torture him.”

“That is so—so— _wrong_ on so many levels,” Crowley groaned, and put his face in his hands. He rubbed at his eyelids with his fingertips. “I am not an evil megalomaniac. I don’t kill archangels, I don’t level cities, and I _certainly_ don’t torture the King of Darkness. I can barely bring myself to terrorise my plants.”

It bothered him a great deal more than he cared to admit, the knowledge that, apparently lurking just beneath the surface, he had the potential to rule Hell. Or the potential to kill Aziraphale in cold blood, for that matter. Crowley usually had to fetch Aziraphale to squash particularly large spiders. He didn’t _feel_ like a killer, and he didn’t _want_ to be a killer. He just wanted to go home.

Crowley felt a cautious prod on his arm, and dropped his hands back to the table.

Sandelaphon was looking at him with a peculiar expression. “You’re not Crawleigh,” she said.

Crowley sighed, feeling stressed and on edge. “No, I’m not.”

“But you look just like him.”

“Unfortunately.”

“ _Or_ ,” Sandelaphon said, “very fortunately indeed.”

Crowley put two and two together and blanched. “No. Not a snowball’s chance.”

“They fear you. Everyone fears you.”

“What would be the point?”

“This world is dying,” Sandelaphon said, gesturing at the tavern. “We can’t stop him. But _maybe_ , while he’s away in your world, you can help us save ours.”

“If he’s coming back at all,” Crowley said dismally. “And, no offense, but I just want to save _my_ world, where apparently there’s a homicidal maniac running around with my face.”

“He’ll be back,” Sandelaphon assured him. “He’s spent too much time moulding this world to his design. But since _you_ don’t know how to open a portal, that means _Crawleigh_ probably didn’t work it out himself either. Someone else in Hell must have told him, but that has to be incredibly powerful magic, and there’s only one person in Hell who’d have that kind of knowledge.”

“No.”

“I think the rumours are true. And all you’d have to do is ask.”

“They’ll see right through me. _He_ ’ll see straight through me.”

“They won’t, and it doesn’t matter if _he_ does. Trust me, no one will dare speak out against you.”

“No.”

“Ah, come on,” Sandelaphon said, leaning slightly across the table. There was a devious glimmer in her eye that Crowley found looked all too familiar. “Isn’t there some small part of you, Crow _ley_ , that always wanted to be Emperor of Hell?”

 

***

 

Crowley’s back door to Hell yawned in front of them, a dark schism in reality. Aziraphale could feel his aura interacting with it, clashing with the utter absence of God’s love. Hell wasn’t really full of dark forces so much as it was lacking in good ones, and that emptiness was what transformed the demons who spent too much time there into such twisted beings. Crowley had once told him that the effects were fairly easy to avoid as long as your aura was in good shape, though it still wasn’t surprising that Crowley was loath to spend much time in the place.

“Are you sure about this?” Aziraphale asked nervously, looking into the gaping black maw and nervously running his hands over each other. Above would be furious if they found out what he was about to do.

Crowley laid a firm hand on his elbow and Aziraphale looked over at him nervously.

“Do you trust me?” Crowley asked, beautiful golden eyes meeting Aziraphale’s own. Crowley’s gaze was level and clear, and Aziraphale took solace in the fact that Crowley seemed confident nothing would go awry. And, the truth was, even if this had been a journey to the ninth circle of Hell to slay Lucifer himself, Aziraphale would have been standing here just the same, because Crowley had asked him to be.

“Of course.”

Crowley gave him a small smile and turned back to the gaping maw. He unfurled his wings and stepped inside.


	5. Into the Inferno

“Are we close?” Aziraphale asked nervously, glancing over his shoulder and the tops of his tightly folded wings for the hundredth time.

They were deep in the second circle of Hell, nearing the border with the third, and Aziraphale was beginning to feel certain they would soon be caught. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how they’d avoided being seen so far, but Crowley didn’t seem surprised by their luck. The demon had led the way down a series of very narrow, winding passages that Aziraphale didn’t think anyone had tread upon in millennia. How Crowley had managed to learn of what were evidently secret paths in Hell was anyone’s guess, but Aziraphale could wait to ask until they were safely back in his bookshop and armed against Hastur.

Crowley didn’t respond to Aziraphale’s question, but he did hold up a hand as he drew to a soundless halt. Aziraphale lurched to a standstill behind him in the narrow tunnel, trying to peer over the top of his friend’s folded wings.

After a long moment, Crowley crept forward and stuck his head around the corner of the cramped passage. Then he slipped forward and out of Aziraphale’s line of sight, black feathers whisking around a bulge of slick rock. Aziraphale hurried after the demon, squeezing himself none too gracefully through the narrow gap and out into a slightly wider corridor lit by faintly smouldering torches. Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale hissed, looking back and forth down the corridor and wishing he’d had the forethought to bring a weapon. The darkness seemed oppressive, the unholy air prickling at his skin and making his feathers stand on end. The uneven floor was scattered with some sort of covering, and it rustled under Aziraphale’s feet. There was a foul smell in the air as well, sour and heavy.

The hallway was silent, and Aziraphale was beginning to seriously worry when Crowley suddenly reappeared around a dark outcropping off to his right.

“Here,” the demon hissed. “I found it.”

Relieved, Aziraphale padded over to him, whatever was scattered on the floor crackling and popping underfoot. “The lock?”

“Yes,” Crowley said quietly. “Keep your voice down.”

Aziraphale nodded silently as Crowley motioned for him to follow. A few metres further down the passage, the path curved slightly and terminated in a wrought iron gate. The bars of the gate vanished directly into the dark, slick rock on all sides, and the gate itself barely fit into the opening.

Aziraphale moved closer and ran a hand along the junction of the edge of the gate and its barred frame, but there was no visible knob, lock, or keyhole. He pulled at the bars experimentally, but they didn’t move. There was a room of some sort on the other side of the gate, but all he could see was inky blackness.

The corridor brightened somewhat and Aziraphale turned to see Crowley prodding at one of the torches on the wall. When the demon turned back, Aziraphale indicated the gate and cast his friend a questioning look, but Crowley shook his head.

The demon moved back down the corridor and stopped a few metres away, just out of sight of the gate. Aziraphale followed him and traced Crowley’s gaze to where a dark, grimy-looking metal lever was set into a recess in the rock wall. Crowley grabbed the lever and pulled down, grimacing a little, and there was a faint, answering screeching of rusty bolts being pulled back from behind Aziraphale.

Crowley winced a little at the noise and quickly gestured to Aziraphale to head back towards the gate.

Aziraphale did so, and when he tested the bars again, this time the gate swung open with a small creak.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. The demon pointed to Aziraphale, into the darkness beyond the gate, and then to the left. He mimed turning a key. _The lock is inside and to the left_ , Aziraphale translated. This gate must be the entrance to some sort of antechamber.

Aziraphale nodded and took a step towards the gate. When Crowley didn’t follow, Aziraphale paused and looked back at him questioningly. Crowley pointed to himself and then to the ground, and looked pointedly back down the narrow corridor. _I’ll stay here and keep watch_ , Aziraphale translated again.

Aziraphale nodded and turned his attention back to the space beyond the gate. It was swathed in a thick, almost oily blackness, and there were no signs of torchlight or any other illumination. He had no concept of how deep the space was.

Aziraphale hesitated and turned back to Crowley again, studying his friend’s face in the dim light. Crowley’s serpentine eyes gazed steadily back at him, and Aziraphale nodded and turned back to the gate. He stepped inside, wondering if he ought to risk creating a light of his own.

The stench was stronger in here, reeking of smoke and sweat and urine, and it hit him like a wall. More than a little disgusted, Aziraphale raised the back of one hand to his mouth as he edged further into the space, eyes trying to penetrate the darkness in front of him. There was a higher density here of whatever was scattered over the floor, and it rustled and snapped under his feet.

A very soft, faint rumble came from close by, and Aziraphale froze. There was a long moment of silence in which the only thing Aziraphale could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears, and then the rumble came again. It was almost like a purr, a long and slow sound almost too quiet and low to hear. A burst of warm air brushed past Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale swallowed and told himself that the sooner he reached the lock and retrieved the sword, the sooner he and Crowley could get out of here.

He took another few steps into the darkness, feeling his breath automatically pick up as he moved his hands in front of himself and tried to make out any faint shapes in the darkness.

The faint rumble was just starting up again when the air was rent with an intense screech from behind Aziraphale.

A very _familiar_ screech, the sound of disused bolts sliding into place…

Very close by, the soft rumble abruptly stuttered and cut off.

Aziraphale spun and covered the half dozen metres to the gate in an instant, shoes slipping on the crinkling floor. When he was still a metre away, he could tell that Crowley was no longer there, and the gate was closed. Aziraphale skidded to a halt in front of it, locked his hands around the bars, and yanked on them, but the gate didn’t budge.

“Crowley!” he hissed. Had someone snuck up on the demon and knocked him out? Aziraphale hadn’t heard any sounds of a struggle. But he knew that splitting up had been foolish, and he should never have left Crowley on his own, not in Hell when one of the Dukes was after him—

Crowley melted out of the shadows beyond the gate, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from gasping a little in relief as a shaky smile broke over his face. “Crowley—my dear—”

Crowley smiled in return, but it was a cold, indulgent smile, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Open the gate,” Aziraphale said, giving the gate another quick tug. “I think there’s something else in here with me. Let me out before it wakes up.”

Crowley’s smile widened and he leaned easily against one of the dark stone walls. “I don’t think so.”

Aziraphale felt his own smile falter. “This isn’t very funny, Crowley.”

“Oh, I think it’s _hilarious_.”

Aziraphale’s fingers wrapped themselves around the rough metal bars of the gate as he felt something cold creep over his heart. “Crowley,” he said sharply. “I’m serious. Open the door.”

“But it’s so much more _fun_ this way,” Crowley drawled, making no move towards the lever Aziraphale knew lay just out of sight. “I mean, do you even know where you are?”

Aziraphale tightened his grip on the gate. “Hell, Crowley, I know this is Hell.”

“The angel walks right into Hell,” Crowley agreed, sounding like this was the opening line to a particularly amusing joke. “And all I had to do was bat my eyes. You know that I’m a demon, right? And you—what— _trusted me?_ I’m sorry; it’s just too good. I’ll be telling this one for centuries.”

Aziraphale froze, feeling the stirrings of actual panic along with confusion and disbelief. “Crowley, I—just let me out, okay?”

“You just can’t get it through your thick skull, can you?” Crowley demanded, voice rising in volume as he strode forward. “ _Crowley_ this, _Crowley_ that; you’re the most pathetic excuse for an angel I’ve ever seen.”

“But we’re—we’re—friends,” Aziraphale stammered. “The Arrangement. Everything. I—I don’t understand.”

Crowley smirked, and suddenly his serpentine eyes looked more predatory than Aziraphale had ever seen them. “The arrangement?” he echoed. “More like a cunning ploy to gain your trust. And I’d say it worked pretty well, didn’t it? It was a long con, but I’ve got to tell you, the look on your face right now makes it all worth it.”

Aziraphale’s heart was beating twice its usual pace, and he felt like he’d tumbled into some sort of hallucination, the ground falling away beneath him, because there was no way that _Crowley_ was saying all this to him.

“You—there’s something wrong with you,” Aziraphale fumbled. “You’re being manipulated, or—or blackmailed or something. Hastur’s behind this; I understand.”

Crowley’s expression darkened and he took a step closer, dark wings fanning out behind him. “Not in the slightest. This is all me, let me assure you. And _Hastur?_ Why, what a pitiful demon I’d be if I were afraid of _that_ imbecile.”

Aziraphale was having trouble processing what Crowley was saying, didn’t think it was possible he could have misread Crowley so completely for so long. They’d known each other for _six thousand years_ ; surely Crowley wasn’t capable of hiding such a dark ulterior motive for all those years, not to mention all those drunken nights?

“Ah, but you don’t believe me,” Crowley said, pacing even closer and leaning forward, hands folded behind his back, golden eyes gleaming. “That’s a shame. Well, I’m sure you’ll change your tune before long, when you’re being torn limb from limb.”

Aziraphale’s insides twisted even further and he felt his jaw lock. Crowley leaned a little closer, expression jeering, and Aziraphale shot his arm forward, reaching between the bars and grabbing Crowley by the tie. He yanked his arm back, slamming the demon forward into the bars. Aziraphale flung his senses out and dived into Crowley’s aura, searching for traces of meddling, possession, or anything else that would tell him that this Crowley wasn’t _his_ Crowley.

The aura _was_ definitely Crowley’s, but suddenly darker than Aziraphale ever remembered it having been before. Where once there had been fondness and affection, not only for Aziraphale but for his possessions, his plants, humanity, and the world at large, there was now only a cold contempt. It was like sinking into a freshly drawn bath expecting it to be warm but instead finding it as cold as ice. The sight of the very fabric of Crowley’s character drenched in such calculated malice hit Aziraphale like a blow, and he scrambled to retreat from Crowley’s aura, feeling utterly unwelcome in a way he never had before.

“Who are you?” Aziraphale demanded in a shaking voice, switching his attention back to where he still had the demon shoved up against the bars, only a few inches from his own face. “And what have you done with Crowley?” Aziraphale searched his friend’s serpentine eyes, but found no trace of the Crowley he had spent the last six millennia with.

Crowley smiled, evidently amused by Aziraphale’s tone. “It’s me, _my dear_ ,” he drawled, and turned his head so that they were nose-to-nose. Crowley’s eyes were just as beautiful as ever, but there was a dark delight in them that rattled Aziraphale to the core. “What’s the matter; can’t handle the truth?”

“I—I don’t believe you,” Aziraphale insisted, but his voice wavered.

“It would be more entertaining if you did,” Crowley said, tearing himself from Aziraphale’s grip and taking a step back, “but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” Crowley miracled a long iron rod into his hand.

Aziraphale quickly took a step away from the bars as Crowley reached out and struck at the gate. He dragged the end of the rod along the bars, filling the cramped space with a loud, ringing noise that echoed off the rocks.

“Wh—what are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, feathers prickling with unease.

Crowley hit the bars one more time, hard, and the sound reverberated. “Dinnertime, boys!” he called, and cast the metal rod behind him onto the floor with a clatter.

There was a scrape and a clicking noise from behind Aziraphale, and he felt his blood run cold.

“This is what happens to silly angels who are foolish enough to trust a demon,” Crowley sneered. “They don’t last long.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried, moving up against the bars again as Crowley turned to leave. “This isn’t you, but I know you’re in there somewhere, and you don’t have to do this. Please, Crowley.”

“We’ll see how you feel about that in a few hours,” Crowley said curtly, turning away and waving a hand vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction. “See you never…angel.”

And then Crowley strolled around the outcropping of rock and was gone.

The bars of the gate were cold under Aziraphale’s hands as he stared after his friend, a bead of sweat already rolling down the back of his neck.

Behind him, there came a scratching noise and a low, grating growl. Slowly, Aziraphale pivoted, pressing his back to the gate and staring into the inky darkness.

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely. A pale blue light filled the cavern, illuminating four large, snarling black dogs prowling closer to him across the straw-strewn floor. Each was easily over a metre tall, skin stretched tight over corded muscles. Eyes burned like coals from hideously shaped heads, and bared, yellowed teeth gleamed sickly in the conjured light.

Aziraphale swallowed and drew his divine power to himself as the first hellhound sprang forward.

 

***

 

Crowley was very used to being afraid. It was second nature to him.

Below had been out to get him for almost as long as he could remember, and before that Heaven had cast him out and declared him fair game for any angel in a righteous mood. Hastur and Ligur had taken extra pleasure in tormenting him at every opportunity, and Beelzebub had occasionally made good on his promises to torture Crowley for his lacklustre demonic activity.

Hell operated on a series of negative reinforcements, such that the reward for doing a great job was the knowledge that your life was only slightly less in grave danger.

Crowley had lived with this background layer of fear for so long that he had almost ceased to notice it, except for when his life was put in especial jeopardy. But never, in all his years, had Crowley ever been on the other end of that relationship. Never had Crowley been a thing to be _feared_.

Crowley was beginning to see why fear was such an attractive weapon, because it was _exhilarating_.

The demons fell to the ground as he walked past, faces pressed to the dark rock floor and wings frozen in fear. No one dared to turn an eye on him, and many fled at the first sign of his presence. Everywhere Crowley’s feet touched the ground, it was as though a spell of reverence fell around him.

Crowley didn’t even have to announce his presence. He just walked right in, and every door opened before him and every knee bowed.

It was also _terrifying_.

As Crowley passed through the third circle, he tugged his sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on his nose so that, if anyone _was_ looking, they wouldn’t be able to see their terror reflected in his eyes.

Crowley imagined that the punishment for impersonating a dictator was probably death, and prayed to anyone friendly who might be listening that he could find a way back to his world before his double found a way back to this one.

As Crowley strode through the fifth circle, tugging nervously on the ends of his sleeves, he noticed distractedly that every demon he passed was wearing a beard. Specifically, a goatee.

Crowley had only rarely been deeper than the sixth circle, and as he descended through the seventh, trying very much to look like he knew where he was going, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his wings from prickling with unease.

He forced himself to imagine he was merely taking a stroll through St James’s, walking confidently across paths he’d frequented many times, en route to meet Aziraphale. Everything was fine, everything was under control, and Crowley was most certainly _not_ entering the eighth circle of Hell as though he owned the place.

Draping himself in as many layers of cool as he could, Crowley strolled forward until he entered a large rock cavern. Three tunnels radiated away from the cavern, but as Crowley hastily eyed their dark mouths, he could find nothing to indicate which lead to the ninth and final circle. Luckily, the number of demons he’d encountered had decreased as he’d descended, and for the moment he was alone.

Crowley slowed to a stop and tried to pretend that he wasn’t trying to guess which way to go next.

At that moment, there was movement from the left-hand tunnel and three demons emerged from the darkness. The first was a towering hulk Crowley recognised with a tremor of fear as the archdemon Asmodeus, whose reputation as a torturer was fearsome. He was dragging another demon along behind him by the back of his collar, the unfortunate creature’s heels dragging on the floor as he made terrified little noises and struggled vainly to free himself. Behind them both trailed the third demon, this one a rather short fellow holding a scroll and long black quill.

They made a beeline for him.

Crowley, half-frozen in fear, kept his expression as neutral as possible, glad he’d had the foresight to put his sunglasses on. When Asmodeus was still three metres away, the archdemon dropped to one knee, shoving the demon he was dragging along behind him roughly to the ground as he did so. The demon with the scrolls knelt as well and bowed his head.

“My lord,” Asmodeus growled, voice grating. Beside him, the demon sprawled on the ground hastily turned his gaze downwards, bony fingers very pale against the rough ground.

Crowley blinked down at the unfortunate prisoner in puzzlement; the demon’s aura seemed familiar, but he didn’t recognise the corporation.

Crowley stared at him for a moment longer, trying to place where he knew the aura from, and then realised a little belatedly that Asmodeus was still waiting for him to respond.

“Asmodeus,” Crowley acknowledged, keeping his voice from trembling by sheer force of will.

The archdemon bowed his head further and then slowly climbed to his feet. He dragged the demon beside him to his feet as well, only to shove him back down to his knees, one hand heavy on his captive’s collar.

“This one,” Asmodeus growled, “was caught on Earth again, against your express orders. He’s already been thrown in the Phlegethon once. Shall I have him broken on the wheel?”

Forcing down an uneasy bile in the back of his throat, Crowley returned his gaze to the unfortunate demon. His head was hanging forward, lanky dark hair obscuring his face, and his clothes were a mix of dark, tattered garments that looked like they’d been lifted from the slums of nineteenth-century London. He was holding himself remarkably still, but his wings were trembling.

Crowley drew a deep breath to steady himself, still trying to work out where he knew the demon from. “What does he have to say for himself?”

The unfortunate prisoner shrunk further inwards, still keeping his head down. Asmodeus growled and shifted his grip to the demon’s hair, yanking his head up.

“You heard your emperor. Speak.”

As the demon’s face came into view, Crowley finally pieced together who it was. Back in his world, he hadn’t seen this demon in over a century, but they’d always been on somewhat good terms, as much as demons could be. He’d gained a bit of fame cutting deals with humans in the sixteenth century, and Crowley had taken it upon himself to seek out the competition and see what he was up against. Of course, it turned out that the demon responsible had been far more reluctant to make the deal with the human in question than the human himself, and Crowley had found in him a kindred spirit where appreciation of the Earth was concerned.

Kneeling before him, eyes watery and terrified, was the demon Mephistopheles.

“Please—I—I was just having a look around. It’s so—so dark down here—”

“It’s supposed to be dark; it’s Hell,” growled Asmodeus, yanking Mephistopheles’ head back further until the lesser demon gasped with pain, pinpricks of tears appearing in his eyes. “You were hoping to incite rebellion, weren’t you? Tell the truth.”

Mephistopheles sucked in a rattling breath and turned his gaze up to Crowley. The plea was clear in his eyes, pure desperation for salvation he must have known wouldn’t be granted. The wispy hairs on his chin from where he’d tried to grow a goatee trembled.

Crowley stared into the terrified eyes of the demon before him, and was glad again that he was wearing sunglasses. He ground his teeth together.

“My—my lord,” Mephistopheles croaked, tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. “Please—I wish you no harm. I just—I couldn’t—it’s so _dark_. I—I just wanted—” Mephistopheles broke off, voice choked.

Asmodeus growled again and released his grip on Mephistopheles’ collar, bringing his hand back in preparation to strike him across the cheek.

Crowley held up a hand.

Asmodeus stopped immediately and gave Crowley a sideways glance.

“I have heard enough,” Crowley said calmly, racking his brain furiously for something he could say that wouldn’t give him away. “I’d like to deal with this personally. An…example must be made.”

Mephistopheles blanched even further and scrambled towards Crowley, throwing himself at his emperor’s feet.

“Please, my lord— _please_ , I’ll do anything—I swear—I just wanted to see the sky—”

Asmodeus lurched forward and roughly dragged Mephistopheles to his feet.

For a moment, the terrified demon was only a fraction of a metre away from Crowley; the two of them were nearly exactly the same height. Mephistopheles stared at him in terror, desperation written across every line of his face, and Crowley looked directly back at him, trying to convey some form of reassurance without giving himself away.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met through the dark lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses, and Crowley winked.

A puzzled expression passed over Mephistopheles’ face, and then he was sharply pulled away by Asmodeus. “Take him to the emperor’s quarters,” the archdemon commanded, shoving Mephistopheles roughly towards to the third demon, who’d been standing by stoically this whole time with his quill and scroll.

The third demon nodded and snapped his fingers. Manacles sprang around Mephistopheles’ wrists, the other ends of the chains falling into the hand of his new captor. Without a word, the short demon turned and marched back in the direction Crowley had come, yanking Mephistopheles after him. The captive demon had stopped crying for the moment, and Crowley saw him glance back towards him before they vanished into the darkness of the corridor.

Crowley turned his attention back to Asmodeus. He was feeling more confident now, and hoped it wouldn’t be his undoing.

“I want to see Lucifer,” Crowley stated, keeping his face forward.

“The prisoner?” Asmodeus asked, and then shook himself. “Of course, my lord.” He hesitated. “Shall I accompany you?”

“For now,” Crowley said, hoping Asmodeus would take the lead.

The archdemon didn’t move for a few moments, and Crowley felt a bead of sweat roll between his shoulder blades as he wondered what to say next.

Luckily, after another heartbeat Asmodeus dipped his head and started down the central of the three hallways branching off into the darkness. Crowley fell into step behind him.

They descended down a tight, winding spiral staircase, the rock here a gleaming black obsidian. The heat grew oppressive the further down they went, until Crowley was sweating so heavily his shirt was soaked all the way through.

It was pitch black, and he was afraid he’d miss a step and go crashing forward into Asmodeus, so Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and stowed them away back in his jacket pocket. It didn’t help much, but he thought he could make out a few more faint shapes in the darkness.

The air around them grew dense and heavy, and Crowley’s wings twitched uncomfortably in the change in atmosphere. It felt like they were walking into the centre of the Earth.

A faint light began to filter up the stairwell, and shortly thereafter the stairway widened slightly and Crowley saw the silhouette of Asmodeus in front of him come to a stop. Crowley ground to a halt beside and a little behind the archdemon and looked past him in horror.

The staircase terminated in a short landing, the floor abruptly falling away as a massive cavern opened up beneath them. And, filling the bottom of the cavern, nearly a hundred metres in diameter, stretched a great lake of fire.

Crowley felt his feathers stand on end as he gazed down at it. He could feel the heat rolling off it even from this distance. _Fire_ was a bit generous, though; it looked more like _lava_ to him, though bits of it were certainly on fire as well.

Asmodeus, who Crowley saw with some sort of strange relief was also sweating bullets, spread charcoal wings and stepped off the short ledge. Crowley, a little afraid to be separated from his guide, even if that guide was an archdemon who could obliterate him in an instant, took off after him.

Asmodeus glided down towards the surface of the lake, feathers trembling slightly in the stale, windless air. Crowley followed him nervously, feeling the heat increase as they lost altitude.

The lake sizzled beneath them, the glowing surface spitting up globs of lava and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. A bubble expanded near Crowley’s foot and exploded, sending droplets flying upwards, and Crowley had to perform a hasty miracle to keep the red-hot globs from crashing into his wings.

Asmodeus began to bank to the left, and Crowley saw where they were going; right in the centre of the flaming lake of lava sat a small, doughnut-shaped island. The ring of land surrounded another, smaller, circular pool of lava, and from the exact middle of this pool rose a long, massive chain. The chain stretched all the way to the ceiling of the cavern, where Crowley saw a wheel and pulley hanging next to a few other, shorter chains.

Asmodeus slowed his flight, huge wings flaring up as he decreased his momentum. Crowley followed his lead, coming to a standstill as he pumped his wings and stared down at the circle of lava within the island.

The archdemon turned, gave Crowley a grave nod, and began beating his wings harder, driving himself upwards. Crowley climbed a few metres himself—some of the flames dancing along the surface of the lava were growing a little too close for comfort—and tilted his head back. Above him, Asmodeus worked his way closer to the roof of the cavern, where the chain met the ceiling. Crowley watched as Asmodeus pulled at something near the large pulley, his huge charcoal wings fighting to keep him aloft. Several loud clanking noises drifted down to Crowley, and a moment later Asmodeus began flying backwards, wingstrokes buffeting the ceiling.

Crowley watched him nervously, unsure what was happening. Then he saw the chain in Asmodeus’ grip, and understood. Crowley’s eyes roved back to the lake of fire as, above him, Asmodeus strained backwards, dragging the chain with him. Down in the circle of lava within the ring-shaped island, the chain shivered and began to rise. The massive iron rings that emerged from the pool of lava were red-hot, flames licking along them as the chain moved steadily upwards. After a dozen or so metres of chain had emerged from the lava, some of the rings smoking quite profusely, the surface of the lake began to quiver.

Crowley automatically beat his wings harder, taking himself a little higher as the lava in the pool began to rise. The chain rose higher, and the lava ascended with it, until it was spilling over the island and streaming back into the main lake. The form of something large and square began to rise out of the lava, and Crowley felt his sweat evaporate directly off his skin as a fresh wave of flames streamed across the mottled surface of the lake.

Asmodeus pulled the chain back even further and, slowly, an iron cage rose out of the lake of fire. It was a perfect cube, with solid top and bottom panels and vertical bars along all the sides. It was a little smaller than Crowley had originally thought, and not quite tall enough for a person to stand up inside of comfortably. The cage rose higher, lava spilling out between the bars and splashing down into the lake. And, from deep within the cage, something gasped for breath.

Every atom in Crowley’s body was screaming _run, you idiot_ , and his hammering heart was telling him to do the same, but he was transfixed with fear, staring in horror as Asmodeus lifted the cage all the way out of the lake.

There was a loud clank from somewhere above and behind Crowley and the cage bounced and swung slightly, the last of the lava streaming out from between the bars and spilling onto the island. Crowley tore his gaze from the cage and glanced over his shoulder, where he saw that Asmodeus had secured the last link of the chain to a very large metal hook hanging from the ceiling. The archdemon saw Crowley looking, gave him a bow in midair, and flew back in the direction of the staircase.

Crowley watched him go and wished fervently that he’d come back.

A grating groan came from behind him, and Crowley swallowed and slowly turned his head back around to face the cage. The last of the lava rolled off the ring-shaped island and vanished into the lake, but the heat rising off the island’s obsidian surface was still visible, the mirage twisting the bars of the cage.

Crowley swallowed heavily and forced himself to drop lower, until the lake was sizzling only metres beneath him. The heat was incredible, and Crowley felt the ends of a few of his feathers singe.

 _Bloody hell_ , Crowley thought, and landed on the island.

As predicted, the ground was unbearably hot, and Crowley felt the leather soles of his shoes ignite almost immediately. He hastily cooled the ground using a quick miracle, returning his shoes back to their previous shape while he was at it; he was rather fond of these shoes.

“Crawwwwwleigh,” a voice rumbled from the cage, scratching and grating.

Crowley slowly turned his head up until he was gazing into the cage. And there, looking very much like Death himself, was Lucifer.

Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak, so for a long moment he just stared, frozen in horror. Inside the cage, Lucifer was mostly curled up on his side, one arm propping himself up. He was gaunt and wan, skin stretched tight over his bones, red and raw in places and oozing something yellow in others. Behind him arched three sets of wings plucked completely free of feathers, leaving just the bleeding, skeletal remains with enough skin and ligaments left to turn Crowley’s stomach. Lucifer stared out at him with flat, hungry eyes, and his mouth dropped open into what might have been a smile of greeting.

Crowley hastily ripped his gaze away and fixed it instead on the floor of the cage, which he was surprised to see was covered with a thin film of what looked like ice.

Actually, much of the cage was covered with flakes of ice, though they were quickly vaporising in the intense heat. Crowley remembered suddenly that the ninth circle of Hell was rumoured to burn cold, not hot, and wondered bleakly if he was in the ninth circle after all. Was there something worse still that lay even deeper, beneath this awful lake of fire?

“Come to gloooooat?” Lucifer rasped, voice ravaged. The disgraced seraph dragged himself closer, reaching out to wrap one mottled hand around one of the cage bars, and Crowley took an automatic step backwards. The back of his heel started sinking into lava, and Crowley quickly pulled it out again, using another miracle to decrease the temperature around him to a more manageable level. “You know I’m aaaaaall eaaaaars.”

“L—L—Lucifer,” Crowley stammered.

“I will _flay_ you, you know that?” Lucifer hissed, drawing himself right up to the cage bars with stiff, jerky movements. “And then I will pluck out all your lovely feathers one by one and crush your bones until you scream for mercy.”

Crowley’s mouth went very dry, and it had nothing to do with the heat.

“A—actually,” Crowley said with a bravery he didn’t feel, “I had a question for you.”

Lucifer heaved a scratching, theatrical sigh and sagged further against the bars. The cage tipped very slightly, and a few rivulets of blood rolled to the edge and dripped off, vaporising as they touched the surface of the lava. “Anooother one? So cuuuurious, mister emperor siiiiiiir.”

“Do you know how to open a portal to another universe?” Crowley asked bluntly, skin crawling.

“But I already—” Lucifer paused. He turned his head towards Crowley, resting his forehead against the bars. Then he sat up slowly, fixing his hollow eyes on the lesser demon. “Oh.” He sat up further, drawing himself right up against the edge of the cage and pressing his face against the bars, which Crowley noted distractedly were carved with glyphs. Lucifer’s eyes bored into his, dark and powerful, and Crowley quickly looked away. _“Oh,_ now _that’s_ interesting.”

Crowley didn’t respond, letting the seraph reach the conclusion on his own.

“You’re not Crawleigh at aaaaaall, aaaaare you?”

“No,” Crowley said, and was relieved when his voice came out steady. Swallowing nervously, Crowley turned and took a few steps along the curve of the island, trying to hide the fact that his knees were shaking.

Lucifer shifted in his cage to follow Crowley’s movements, wrapping his bony hands around the bars of the cage. “You’re from the other world.”

“So you were the one who opened the portal in the first place?” Crowley confirmed.

“Indeeeed.”

“Can you open it again?”

“You’d have to actually do the deeeeed,” Lucifer rasped, “but I could tell you how…if I were so incliiiined.”

“Good,” Crowley said, coming to a stop and taking a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “Because I have a proposal for you.”


	6. Deal with the Devil

The paw of the fourth and final hellhound flexed against the rock floor one last time, claws screeching, and finally fell still.

Aziraphale drew in a shaking breath, chest burning, and staggered backwards into the slick, dark wall of the cavern. He gasped as his injured wing brushed the rock, and took an unsteady step sideways into the wall to catch himself. The rock he’d been using as a weapon after his angelic powers had failed him slipped from his sweat-slicked hand and clattered to the floor.

“Eeow, he’s gonna die from blood loss, inn’t he?” a tinny voice jeered from the direction of the gate, where a dozen low-ranking demons had shoved themselves up against the bars. They’d been amusing themselves screeching at Aziraphale and offering rude commentary as he fought for his life.

“Move it, I wanna see!”

“Where’s your God to save you now?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to tune them out, which was easier than expected due to the pounding in his ears. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and his head began to swim as his shirt grew heavier, soaked through with his own blood.

Dizzy and lightheaded, Aziraphale tried to lean closer against the wall, but found himself taking an unsteady step backwards instead.

He shifted too much weight onto his injured knee and forced his heavy eyelids open as he staggered further backwards, wings automatically half-fanning out as he tried to keep his balance.

It wasn’t until Aziraphale felt several crushing pressures along the leading edge of his left wing that he realised he’d inadvertently stumbled too close to the gate.

“Get him!”

“Bring him over here!”

The hands on his wing pulled harder, yanking Aziraphale closer. He tried to pull away, but his vision was swimming and there was a ringing noise in his head that wouldn’t cease.

“S—s—stop,” Aziraphale stammered weakly, but his protest fell on deaf ears.

The demons dragged him closer to the magic-proof gate, reaching their arms between the bars and pinning his wing to the gate.

“Now pluck him like a chicken!”

“That’ll show him.”

“I’m gonna stuff me a pillow with these!”

Fresh pain tore up Aziraphale’s wing as he felt his feathers torn violently out, and for a moment his head cleared. Aziraphale found his footing and yanked his wing towards himself as hard as he could, trying to rip it free of the demons at the gate.

“Grab him!”

“You’re not getting away.”

The demons tightened their grip on his wing, and Aziraphale only succeeded in wrenching his badly injured shoulder.

Aziraphale gasped in pain, vision reeling, and felt himself start shivering.

“Let—me go.” His voice was weak and rasping, even to his own ears.

“Bring him closer; I wanna help.”

“How do you like _that_ , hmm?”

“He won’t last another hour!”

Aziraphale felt more feathers torn from his wing by the fistful, and he turned until he was facing the gate as much as possible, wing protesting the severe angle. He looked deep inside himself and dredged what little divine power he still had to the surface.

Aziraphale staggered closer to the gate, gasping for breath as he channelled his angelic power towards his attackers, wing straining.

“I…said…let go.”

Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the bars of the gate and locked his arms, leaning forward heavily. He closed his eyes and threw what power he still had left in front of himself, letting it crash over the demons.

They screeched and the many of the hands intent on tearing out his feathers hastily released him and retreated. Aziraphale tugged his wing free and swept it behind his back, leaning closer to the gate and still casting off divine energy.

“Back, back!”

“Eeeoooww!”

Aziraphale heard the demons scrambling to leave his presence, pushing past each other as they surged back down the narrow passageway.

The last of Aziraphale’s power ebbed away and he sagged against the gate, trembling with overexertion. He forced his eyes open, vision unfocussed and blurry.

At least for now the demons had retreated out of his line of sight around the bend in the corridor, leaving Aziraphale alone in the darkness.

He rattled in another breath, and his shoulder, knee, and injured wing throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His left wing joined in, a dozen different areas searing as he felt something sticky roll down his remaining feathers.

Fighting back a sob of pain, Aziraphale pushed himself away from the gate. He was shaking quite badly now, head spinning and breaths coming short and tight. He began making his way slowly back into the cavern, using the wall for support and leaning heavily against its rough surface.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were wet by the time he reached a patch of wall sufficiently out of reach of the gate but also a healthy distance away from the sprawled bodies of the four hellhounds.

He turned unsteadily, pressed his back to the wall, and sank slowly to the ground, letting his legs collapse under him. Once he’d reached the floor, he leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyelids slink half shut. He could feel more blood seeping out of the bite mark in his shoulder, where one of the hellhounds had done its very best to rip a chunk off, and weakly pressed his hand to the wound.

He gasped with the pain of it and felt himself grow a little colder.

Biting back a groan, Aziraphale ground the back of his skull into the rock wall and tried to keep himself conscious as he felt the darkness growing closer around him. He shivered again as several dark tendrils reached him and began to wrap themselves around the hollow feeling in his heart.

 

***

 

“Pleeeease enlighten me,” Lucifer rasped, leaning closer.

“I imagine you’d like to be out of this cage,” Crowley said, gesturing at the horrifying box with a lightness he didn’t feel, “and I imagine you’d be just pleased as punch if Crawleigh never came back from my world, yes?”

“Verrrry,” Lucifer purred.

“I can do that for you,” Crowley said. “I only ask for a few things.”

“Name your terrrrms, other Crawleiiiiigh,” Lucifer rasped, flexing his fingers around the bars of the cage.

“Firstly,” Crowley said nervously, “after I’ve gone back through the portal, I don’t want anyone else meddling with my universe, okay? Just forget we exist.”

“Alreaaaady forgotten.”

“Secondly,” Crowley said, thinking fast as he turned and paced a few steps along the island, “I’d like to appoint the next of Hell’s official liaisons to Earth. Your universe is…unbalanced. I’m sure you’d love to continue the reign of Hell on Earth, but you need to pull back your forces. Keep Hell to itself and let the Earth recover, at least for a little while.”

“That is a taaaaall order,” Lucifer rasped, “but who wants that nassssty old planet anyway? Will a hundred years suffiiiiice?”

“Done,” said Crowley, who’d been concerned that this was one point Lucifer wouldn’t want to concede. Hell clearly had the upper hand in this universe, but it was destroying the Earth and everything on it. Crowley knew his first priority was getting home, but there was no harm to be done in setting this universe to rights while he was at it. “I want the demon Mephistopheles to be the liaison.”

“Fiiiiine. Anything elsssse?”

“One more,” Crowley said, turning and pacing in the other direction, the shiny obsidian surface of the island uneven under his shoes. “I need information. What does Crawleigh want in my universe?”

Lucifer smiled at him from between the bars. “They say _my_ folly was pride,” he drawled, “but Crawleigh’s folly is arrrrrrogance.”

Crowley frowned and waited for him to continue.

“The thing about ruling Hell,” Lucifer explained, leaning back in his cage, “is that all you get is Hell. You can play around on Earth if you’re lucky, but Heaven’s strictly off-limits. Of courrrrse, there is one time when anything’s up for grabs.”

“The Apocalypse,” Crowley said.

Lucifer nodded, ravaged wings shifting behind him as he leaned closer again. “Winner takes all. So Crawleigh picked off the angels one…by…one,” —With each word he flicked his finger at imaginary angels— “until the rest ran and hid in their hidey-holes. So Apocalypse time. _Except_ …” Lucifer chuckled, and it was a dark, wretched sound, “he didn’t think that far ahead, did he?” He gave another short laugh, but this one seemed to catch in his throat, and he coughed wetly.

Crowley swallowed nervously. “No…er…Antichrist?” he guessed.

Lucifer spat what looked like blood onto the floor of the cage and rolled his bony shoulders. “Oh, I could proviiiiiide one, no problem, but what about the final battle? Lucifer v. _Michael_. But Crawleigh went and _slew_ the Sword of Heaven, and foiled his own plan!” Lucifer seemed to think this was absurdly funny, and he hacked out a few more scratching laughs.

Crowley waited until he had finished, trying not to look too closely at any part of Lucifer’s ravaged form. “So Crawleigh’s looking for Michael,” Crowley surmised. “In my world, I mean. He needs Michael to fight in the final battle.”

Lucifer flexed one of his bony hands and nodded.

“How did he kill Michael in the first place?” Crowley asked, still unnerved by the fact.

Lucifer’s expression abruptly soured, and his eyes locked on Crowley. He shifted back towards the front of his cage. “You want to know how he killed my brother? He did it right… _there_.” Lucifer pointed out of his cage, towards a stretch of the lake of fire off to his right. “Crawleigh got _greedy_ , you see, and took too much power for himself. Once he’d tricked me into here, word of my imprisonment got back to my headstrong brother. Heaven wanted to start the Apocalypse so they could wipe little Crawleigh off the map, except they couldn’t get to me for that Antichrist business. So _Michael_ , dear brother, came down to _rescue_ me.”

Lucifer mimed a flying creature descending with his hands. “He was so close. Right over there. He’d even figured out how the cage worked. But a tongue of fire was all it took…” Lucifer moved one hand from his crudely mimed Michael and waved it around underneath his other hand, indicating the lake of fire. “A miracled gust of wind, just enough fire to reach dear Michael’s wings—that was it. And the Sword of Heaven just…fell in. Like a goddamn _rock_.” Lucifer dragged his first hand down into the depths of his mimed lake of fire. He was staring intently at Crowley, eyes dark and unreadable. He nodded again to the stretch of lake off to his right. “Crawleigh killed the one person who would turn out to be indispensable, isn’t that a _laugh_?”

“Not really,” said Crowley, who just wanted to leave this dreadful place as soon as possible.

“Before that,” Lucifer continued uninvited, resting his forehead against the bars of his cage, “I sort of respected him, you understaaaand. Professional respect. Crawleigh didn’t have the raw power, but he was _damn_ smart. He worked hard for what he got.” Lucifer rubbed his forehead against the bars, hair sticking on the slick metal. “But my opinion changed when I saw Michael vanish into this detestable pit, and do you know why?”

 _Because you watched your potential rescuer and brother die screaming in front of you?_ Crowley thought bleakly to himself.

“Because,” Lucifer hissed, “Crawleigh crossed a _line_. He could take Hell for his own, he could lock me in this vile box, but _no one kills Michael but me._ ” Lucifer shifted in the cage, fingernails grating along the metal as he adjusted his grip on the bars. “So you have a deal, otherworldly serpent, so long as you ensure that sssssmug look is wiped off his face permanently.”

Crowley looked Lucifer as much in the eye as he dared, and knew that this was the best chance he had to get home. “It’s a deal.”

 

***

 

Aziraphale shivered. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, the pain crashing over him in waves.

It had receded for the moment, and Aziraphale just sat motionless and felt the faint trickle of fresh blood rolling down his chest. He stared dimly down at the dark floor of the cavern with half-closed eyes, gaze resting blankly on a clump of straw that had been soaked nearly black with blood.

The demons had returned to their places at the gate, rattling the bars and jeering at him, but Aziraphale barely heard them, eyes unfocussed and mind adrift.

His angelic powers were all but used up, defences as down as it was possible for them to be. The dark, clinging emptiness that lurked in Hell had wrapped itself around him, and he knew that he had been betrayed.

 _It wasn’t Crowley_ , Aziraphale told himself over and over, trying to hold the mantra in his mind even as he weaved in and out of consciousness. _It wasn’t Crowley. Crowley wouldn’t do this_.

Aziraphale remembered the cold, flat look in his friend’s serpentine eyes, and told himself that there was no way those eyes had belonged to _his_ Crowley. Deep down, Crowley was _kind_ —if only to a select few people—and he knew that the demon just didn’t have it in him to hold such a simmering resentment of him for so long without Aziraphale knowing about it. In fact, Crowley rarely seemed able to keep anything from Aziraphale for long, and if he was upset with Aziraphale, then the angel was the first to know about it. It wasn’t in his nature to sit and stew over things like this. And, even on his worst day, Crowley had never been this ruthless. He _knew_ Crowley, and his friend would never do this.

 _Or maybe_ , said a reasonable voice in Aziraphale’s head, _maybe that was all part of his plan. By convincing you that he’s an open book, he prevented you from looking too closely at his actual intentions._

 _No,_ Aziraphale protested exhaustedly. _He couldn’t have been lying for that long. We were friends._ Are _friends. I trust him._

 _And see where that trust got you_ , the voice pointed out. _He tried to kill you, you know. He lured you here and left you to die._

 _It wasn’t him_ , Aziraphale thought back, fingers twitching slightly against his injured shoulder, which had ceased to have any feeling some time ago. _It wasn’t real; he was possessed or something. It was a trick—_

_But his aura was the same. You know his aura better than you know your own. And his eyes were the same. His beautiful, golden, treacherous eyes…_

_Stop it,_ Aziraphale thought, unsure where these thoughts were coming from but wishing very dearly that they would go away. _It wasn’t him; I know it wasn’t._

_His aura. His eyes. His wings. All identical. How would you fake the aura?_

Aziraphale shifted slightly and let out a gasp of pain followed by something that sounded awfully like a whimper. The demons at the gate called fresh insults and rattled the bars.

Aziraphale’s vision swam alarmingly for almost a full minute, and it took him another few shaking, shallow breaths before he could piece together another coherent thought, brain fuzzy and heavy.

 _So it was him,_ Aziraphale picked up his thread at last, _But not_ him _him. Must have been possessed._

 _If he were possessed, his aura would have been different,_ the voice pointed out without missing a beat. _He wasn’t possessed._

Aziraphale hazily recalled the feeling of Crowley’s aura all around him, and shivered weakly at the memory. Crowley’s aura had been far colder than he’d ever felt it, but it undoubtedly _had_ been Crowley. There was some indefinable quality written into the very fabric of Crowley’s being, in the shape of him as moulded by their Father, and it had been so achingly _familiar_.

 _Then he was blackmailed or manipulated,_ Aziraphale thought tiredly. _Maybe they threatened his life._

 _Except you looked him in the eye_ , the voice nagged. _If he didn’t mean what he said, you would’ve seen it in his eyes—the regret. He’d have given you some sort of sign. You know he would have._

Aziraphale wished the voice would just shut up and let him die in peace.

 _You could see the truth of it in his eyes_ , the voice reminded him, returning the image to his mind. Crowley’s eyes appeared before him, beautiful and golden but devoid of any warmth, leaving only a yawning, cold abyss with the instincts of a predator.

 _Then he’s…under a spell,_ Aziraphale tried, wincing as his injured knee sent a spasm of pain up his leg, fresh blood oozing to the surface. _Or he’s been brainwashed. He…he needs my help._

 _You’re reaching,_ the voice informed him coolly. _What spell could do that? And two days is awfully quick to brainwash him into murdering you in cold blood. If he really was as loyal as you’re thinking, of course. Though demons aren’t exactly known for being loyal, are they?_

 _This one is_ , Aziraphale thought, but it took longer this time to get the necessary energy together to form the thought. He was exhausted down to his very bones, but was afraid that if he fell asleep now he wouldn’t wake up again.

 _So what if you don’t wake up?_ the voice asked. _Crowley doesn’t care about you; he never has. And it’s not like you have anything else to live for._

A twinge of pain ran through Aziraphale’s shoulder, and a small sound escaped his lips before he could bite it back.

_He wants you dead. You should oblige him._

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched again, weakly, and he made an effort to force his eyes open further. _N—no._

_How are you going to spend the rest of eternity, hmm? Sitting around in your bookshop all alone? Going to the Ritz and St James’s all by yourself, mourning the memory of something that was never truly yours?_

Aziraphale tried to swallow, but his throat was very tight. _I—I’ll—_

_Yes?_

Aziraphale could barely think straight, and he didn’t know what it was he wanted anymore. Maybe the voice was right; maybe he should just fall asleep and never wake up again. What was left for him in the world, as it was?

 _Hold that thought_ , said the voice in Aziraphale’s head. _You cared a great deal for Crowley—maybe you even loved him. And he betrayed you and left you for dead._

Aziraphale found a few more tears in his tired, pain-racked body, and they began to roll down his cheeks.

 _You trusted him_ , the voice continued. _You gave him everything, and never asked for anything in return. But he didn’t want any part of you, not once he got to know you well enough. He allowed you to get attached and then deliberately betrayed you in the way he knew would hurt you most. He destroyed you and then left you for dead. He has_ killed _you, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale’s eyes were burning, and there was a gaping, throbbing feeling in his chest that the hellhounds hadn’t caused.

 _He killed you,_ the voice repeated. _So how about you live long enough so you can repay the favour?_

Aziraphale sniffled, chest and shoulder burning with the movement.

 _Just imagine the look on his face,_ the voice continued. _He thinks you’re nothing. So how about you show him that you’re something after all._

Aziraphale gazed dimly across the cavern as the suggestion settled into his muddled, pain-addled brain, and thought that maybe this would bring peace to the hole in his heart.


	7. The Killer Instinct

As Crowley laid his hands on the carved bars of Lucifer’s cage, he thought to himself that this might be the most reckless and possibly last thing he would ever do.

Even weakened as Lucifer was, it was still painfully obvious that he possessed more power than Crowley could dream of, and once Crowley opened the cage, Lucifer would have plenty of opportunity to use it.

A few metres behind Crowley, hovering above where the flames licked upwards from the sea of lava, sat a perfectly circular white portal. Crowley had conjured it a moment before, following Lucifer’s rasped instructions and praying that the caged seraph wasn’t feeding him the directions to a spell that would end in his own painful death. But the portal had appeared just as Lucifer had said it would, a flat white circle identical to the one Crowley had seen appear in his lounge just a few days ago.

Lucifer’s half of the bargain thusly fulfilled, it was now time for Crowley to hold up his end. It was very tempting to just dive through the portal and leave Lucifer to rot in his terrible cage, but Crowley didn’t think he was willing to cross the devil at his own game. Besides, holding up his end of the bargain meant that, after he freed Lucifer, the seraph might uphold his, which could lead to a withdrawal from Earth and the allowance of some time for balance to be restored to this universe.

So Crowley had fallen into an awkward hover and moved closer to the cage, wingstrokes buffeting the pool of lava beneath him. According to Lucifer, Crawleigh had bound the glyphs on the cage to his own aura, so that he was the only one who could open it.

“Jusssst tell it to open,” Lucifer rasped from the cage, where he’d drawn back slightly from the bars. “If you really are him, it should open.”

“Don’t try anything,” Crowley warned, feeling a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck as he adjusted his grip on the engraved bars, the edges of the glyphs sharp against his fingers. He turned his attention to the bars. “O—open.”

Crowley pulled his hands back and simultaneously brought his wings down hard, propelling himself away from the cage and backwards towards the portal.

At the same instant, all around the perimeter of the cage, the bars cracked. A horizontal fissure appeared in the centre of each bar, breaking them into upper and lower halves. The fissure widened, the top half of the bars receding upwards and vanishing into the solid top panel of the cage while the bottom half did the same with the floor. Despite the fact that the top and bottom halves of the cage were no longer physically attached, the cage remained steady as the bars slowly pulled away, melting seamlessly into the top and bottom panels.

Lucifer moved forwards and began slowly pulling himself from the cage, straightening up properly for what must have been the first time in forever, three sets of tattered wings spreading out behind him.

“Bye,” Crowley said shortly, and threw himself through the portal before Lucifer decided it was easier to just kill him.

The world flashed bright white around Crowley, and a heartbeat later he rocketed out into the cold darkness of a cool spring night.

Crowley pulled back immediately, wings flaring out behind him, and hovered for a moment as he let his eyes adjust. He made out something flat and grey beneath him, and half-folded his wings as he stepped down onto it. The ground flexed beneath him as he landed, a hollow ringing noise emanating from under his feet, and Crowley realised in surprise that he was standing on corrugated sheet metal. He looked around at his surroundings, placing himself on what appeared to be a roof, four short towers rising around him in a square. Beyond the nearest one, he could see the glimmer of city lights and the outline of what he thought was the dome of St Paul’s.

He spotted Crawleigh almost immediately, kneeling on the roof not far away. His back was to Crowley, but he’d twisted so that he was looking over his shoulder, and he knew Crawleigh had seen the light cast by the portal.

“Nice night,” Crowley commented, folding his wings neatly behind him. He felt his mobile buzz in his pocket but ignored it, keeping his eyes on his double.

Crawleigh climbed to his feet, the light from the portal gleaming off the divine sword in his hand. “I didn’t expect to be seeing you again.”

“I don’t imagine you did, no,” Crowley said easily, not moving from his place in front of the portal. It wouldn’t be long before it began to shrink and then vanished, and he wasn’t about to give Crawleigh the opportunity to escape as Crowley had before. “Your world’s a bit of a dump, you know that?”

Crawleigh’s face twisted itself into an annoyed expression. “At least it’s not mass chaos like yours.”

“It’s not chaos,” Crowley said mildly. “It’s highly organised, but you do have to look at it quite closely, I’ll give you that.”

Crawleigh paced closer, feet ringing on the sheet metal. “How did you open that?” he asked, raising the sword and pointing it at the portal behind Crowley.

“Oh, this?” Crowley asked, making a show of looking over his shoulder at the portal, which was beginning to dwindle in size. “I paid a visit to an old friend of yours—I believe he’s the erstwhile King of Hell—and he gave me a few pointers.”

Crawleigh’s expression soured, a hard glint coming into his eye. “You spoke to _Lucifer?”_

“More than spoke,” Crowley said cheerfully, savouring the look of irritation on his double’s face. “That’s quite the lock you have on his cage, keyed to open only to your aura. Or, should I say, it _was_ quite the lock.”

“You—” Crawleigh surged forward but caught himself a moment later. The sword in his hand abruptly burst into flames. “I underestimated you,” he said.

Crowley shrugged, watching the light cast by the portal begin to fade further, his shadow on the corrugated roof growing fainter. The portal must have almost closed by now. “You’re not the first.”

“Though it is no matter,” Crawleigh hissed, stalking closer. “I was going to have to release Lucifer for the final battle anyway.”

“Then no hard feelings?”

Crawleigh’s lip curled. “I’m afraid not. Your presence annoys me.”

“Same.”

Crawleigh lunged forward with the sword, and at the same moment Crowley flung his wings out and pushed them forward as hard as he could. The gust of wind slammed into Crawleigh, sending the flames of his sword flaring higher as Crowley shot backwards and into the air, the last vestiges of the portal winking out beneath him. He spun in midair, sweeping his wings down as he shot towards the edge of the roof. Once he’d cleared what looked like a row of crenellations, Crowley cranked in his wings, twisted, and dove straight down and out of sight of the roof.

Crowley flashed by several stories of pale stone walls and windows, and suddenly recognised where he was: the White Tower, in the Tower of London.

The ground neared very quickly, and Crowley barely snapped his wings open in time. He still hit hard, collapsing into a crouch to absorb the force as all the air was driven from his lungs. Crowley forced himself immediately to his feet, chest burning, and staggered backwards until he’d ducked into a nearby doorway. Now safely out of view of anyone standing on the edge of the roof and looking down, Crowley took a moment to catch his breath.

He stayed there for a long minute, heart pounding in his chest, but there were no signs of pursuit. Maybe Crawleigh had decided he wasn’t worth killing after all. He’d clearly been in the middle of something on the roof.

Crowley took a deep breath and decided to give it another few minutes, so Crawleigh would be more inclined to think Crowley had fled. Given how Crowley had acted at their first meeting, he thought it likely that Crawleigh would underestimate him again.

Crowley kept his back against the heavy wooden door, eyes on the pattern of faint light and shadow playing across the ground in front of him, but there was no sign of movement. A few trees sighed in the wind nearby.

Remembering that his mobile had buzzed earlier, Crowley fished around in his pocket for it. He must have come back into range when he’d passed through the portal, because his mobile was showing three missed calls, two of which had voicemails. They were all from Aziraphale.

Crowley glanced out at the darkened night again, but there was still no sign of Crawleigh, so he navigated to his first voicemail and put the phone to his ear.

“—ley. Am I supposed to talk now? Listen, Crowley, where are you? You know I dislike it when you are not punctual. It is unprofessional and a waste of my time.” There was a hint of annoyance in Aziraphale’s voice.

 _St James’s_ , Crowley remembered belatedly. _I was supposed to meet him there on Thursday._

Crowley bit his lip and clicked on the second voicemail message.

“—really. Are you okay? It’s unlike you to disappear like this. Please get in touch.” This time it was concern plain in Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley leaned his head back heavily against the door. “I apologise if I have offended you, though frankly I can’t think of any reason why that would be the case.”

The message clicked off and Crowley lowered the mobile from his ear, frowning worriedly down at the list of messages. The first was from three days ago, and the following two from yesterday; there’d been nothing in the last twenty-four hours.

Casting another look out at the still night, Crowley hit the _return call_ button and put his mobile to his ear. He kept his eyes trained on the ground in front of him as the phone rang.

It rang twice more and Crowley hung up midway through the fourth ring. He stared down at his mobile worriedly. Given that Aziraphale wasn’t likely to try contacting him three times in two days and then abruptly give up without having found him, Crowley decided that this did not bode well at all. He remembered Crawleigh on the roof, with his devious, malicious nature and nearly identical appearance.

Crowley ground his teeth together and tucked his mobile back into his pocket. He took another deep, bracing breath, and stepped out from under the cover of the recessed doorway. Keeping an eye on the stars, Crowley very quietly spread his wings and took to the air.

He flew around the corner of the keep, slowly gaining altitude on silent wings. He reached the top level of the tower and hovered there for a moment, just high enough to peek over the edge of the battlements. Crawleigh was kneeling on the metal sheeting again, his back to Crowley, and it looked like he was drawing something. Crowley’s eyes fixed themselves on the divine sword, resting next to his double on the corrugated roof.

Crowley pushed himself higher, keeping his wings as perfectly aligned with the air currents as he could, hoping Crawleigh would mistake the quiet sounds of his feathers cutting through the air for the rustle of the breeze through the trees below them. Once he’d risen above the crenellations, he began gliding silently forward, catching an opportune breeze and flying low over the roof of the tower. He was approaching Crawleigh from behind, and Crowley extended his hand as he drew quickly near, intending on simply plucking the divine blade from its place beside his double.

Crowley’s hand closed around the hilt and a heartbeat later he crashed headlong into the metal sheeting as Crawleigh grabbed his wrist and yanked him out of the air.

Crowley twisted, head ringing slightly as he redoubled his grip on the hilt of the sword and tried to roll away. One of his wings was half-collapsed under his shoulder, but he struck out with the other one, slamming the leading edge hard into Crawleigh’s face.

His double hissed but merely turned his head aside and surged forward, digging his knee into Crowley’s stomach as he tried to pry the sword from his grip.

Crowley writhed, trying to shake Crawleigh off of him, and the second slam of his wing into Crawleigh’s face slid his doppelgänger mostly off his chest.

Crowley tried to scramble to his feet, tightening his grip on the sword, but Crawleigh grabbed the edge of his suit jacket and yanked him back down to the roof, crushing one of Crowley’s wings in the process. They wrestled on the metal sheeting for possession of the sword for a long moment, both of them elbowing, kneeing, and scratching wherever they could.

They rolled over, and Crawleigh slammed the back of Crowley’s head into the sheeting as he gained the upper hand, still trying to pry the sword from Crowley’s vice-like grip.

“I’m going to kill you,” Crawleigh hissed. “I’m going to decorate thisss entire blasssted ccccity with your organsss.”

Crowley didn’t reply, instead dragging the sword closer to them so that the blade passed dangerously close to his double’s face. Crawleigh pulled back to avoid it and Crowley surged upwards, turning them over again.

Crowley saw his opportunity and scrambled to his feet, shoving Crawleigh back down with a foot on his sternum when he tried to follow, finally yanking the sword free from his double’s interfering grip. He fanned his wings open and swept them forward, propelling himself backwards a few metres. He touched down straight away and took a few short steps back towards Crawleigh, close enough to be threatening but out of easy reach.

Crawleigh was already halfway to his feet, but Crowley levelled the divine sword at his chest and he slowed to a stop. “What did you do to Aziraphale?” Crowley demanded, the sword heavy and unfamiliar in his hand.

For a moment Crawleigh just blinked at him with serpentine eyes, and then he huffed a laugh and sat back heavily, the metal roofing thrumming hollowly under him. “You’re joking,” he wheezed. “You actually _do_ know that angel? This is even better than stringing your organs across London!”

Something icy crept across Crowley’s insides, and he took a half step forward, moving the tip of the sword so it was pointed at his double’s throat. “Tell me what you did to him,” Crowley repeated loudly.

Crawleigh grinned, and the cruel expression looked wrong on his face. “Oh, but it’s more than you just _knowing_ him, isn’t it? You _care_ for him. How _precious_.”

“Answer my question,” Crowley snapped.

“But you’ve got to appreciate the _irony_ ,” Crawleigh crowed. “Just look at that sword in your hand—do you have any idea where I got it?”

“I don’t care,” Crowley said shortly, taking another half step forwards, the tip of the sword now only a foot away from Crawleigh’s throat. “Just tell me what you did with him.”

Crawleigh leaned forward, looking up at Crowley with cold, serpentine eyes as he pushed his own throat closer to the tip of the divine blade. “I pulled that sword from the body of your little _friend_ —right after I killed him with it.”

Crowley felt cold and numb all over, and it took him a breathless moment to realise that Crawleigh wasn’t talking about _his_ Aziraphale. Crawleigh had brought the sword with him when he’d passed through the portal into Crowley’s lounge, so surely it didn’t make any sense if he’d killed Aziraphale before that?

“Your Aziraphale, you mean,” Crowley said, feeling rattled and desperate for confirmation. His Aziraphale couldn’t be dead—he _couldn’t—_

“Oh yes,” Crawleigh said easily, settling back further onto the roof and looking quite at home. “What I did to _your_ sorry excuse for an angel is _so_ much worse. Pity I didn’t think of it sooner; it was such _fun_.”

“Tell me,” Crowley demanded, the tip of the sword trembling. “ _Now._ ”

Crawleigh smirked. “Sure.” He sat forward again, and Crowley adjusted his grip nervously on the hilt of the sword, unnerved by the calmness in his double’s eyes. “The last I saw him, he was calling your name from his cosy new home in Hell. You should have heard him; he was so _desperate_.”

The icy feeling wrapped itself tighter around his chest, and Crowley felt himself begin to properly panic, breaths shortening. “Where in Hell?” he demanded, trying to steady his shaking hands. His mind was on the horrible cage he’d just left, and the ravaged state of Lucifer’s wings and corporation.

The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up. “Let’s just say I threw him to the dogs.”

Crowley felt himself blanch but stepped forward anyway, pushing the tip of the sword closer to his double’s throat. “You’re going to regret that.” Crowley willed the sword to burst into flames.

A long moment passed, but nothing happened.

Crowley’s eyes flicked to the blade, and he willed harder, hand growing tight around the sweat-slicked hilt. The sword trembled a little in his grip, but the steel stayed cool.

Crawleigh was staring at the blade too, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

Crowley scowled and shook the sword. He was going to kill Crawleigh with it. He _wanted_ to kill Crawleigh with it. He was distraught and upset, fear and anger coursing through him, but…the sword wouldn’t light. His mind jumped back to Aziraphale, most likely hurt or trapped in Hell, and he didn’t want to delay here any longer than absolutely necessary. “Come _on_.”

Crawleigh sat forward, expression gleeful. “You _can’t light it_. He can’t do it! You’re a coward _and_ a pacifist!”

“I’m not a pacifist,” Crowley growled, shaking the blade again. _I’m a demon._ It wasn’t like he hadn’t taken lives. And if _Crawleigh_ could light it, then Crowley knew he had to have it in him somewhere.

Crawleigh was still laughing, and Crowley took a step backwards, feeling a second wave of panic begin to set in. He needed to find Aziraphale as soon as possible, but he didn’t want to leave Crawleigh on the board any longer than he had to either. He was dangerous, and the fact that he was up here on this rooftop in the middle of the night proved that he was up to something.

So Crowley stopped trying to light the sword and instead glared at his double, who was slowly making his way to his feet and barely containing his amusement.

Then Crowley turned and sprinted for the edge of the rooftop.

“Oi!” Crawleigh shouted after him, the humour suddenly vanishing from his voice.

Crowley reached the edge of the roof, put one foot on a crenel, and threw himself off the edge. He snapped his wings out, shoulders straining as he shot westward at top speed, the divine blade heavy in his hand.

 

***

 

Crowley could hear Crawleigh snarling expletives not far behind him, and he commanded his wings to carry him faster.

He was crossing the City now, and he tucked his wings in and dropped twenty metres in elevation, dipping between the upper stories of the buildings. Crawleigh’s London was a ruin, but this one was full of tall, grand buildings and ridiculously winding streets, and Crowley knew them all like the back of his hand.

Crowley tilted his wings back, braking as quickly as possible, and veered down a side street, hoping to shake his pursuer.

It wasn’t late enough for the streets to be deserted—as they so rarely were—and pedestrians shouted and pointed as he shot over their heads, black wings blotting out the stars. Unfortunately, this surprised chaos left enough of a trail for Crawleigh to follow, though when Crowley glanced over his shoulder as he shot past the column memorialising the Great London Fire, he saw that he’d opened up some distance between them.

Crowley shot down Cannon Street next, the shadow of a construction crane flitting over him as he fixed his eyes on the towering bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral straight ahead.

He risked another look over his shoulder as he flashed past a row of modern flats faced with dark, shimmering windows, his reflection following him like a shadow across a pond. Crawleigh was slowly gaining on him, so Crowley turned his attention back to St Paul’s dome as he sped towards it.

He forced himself higher as he shot over the church gardens, gaining just enough height to clear the southern transept. The pale marble columns of the dome’s drum blurred in his vision as he strained his wings, angling himself towards the closer of the two belfries on the cathedral’s western edge.

Crawleigh was closer now, the words of his shouted threats whisked away by the wind but leaving the meaning very clear.

Crowley pointed himself very close to the edge of his chosen belfry, between the arches of the lantern and an elaborately sculpted spire. When he was only metres away, he cranked his wings in until they were nearly flush with his body, shooting through the small space like a thread through the eye of a needle. Once he’d cleared the edge of the belfry, he flared out the tips of his wings and dove straight down, out of sight of the cathedral’s roof.

A heartbeat later, he heard Crawleigh’s wing clip part of the belfry, and Crowley wasted no time in shooting across the churchyard and into the shadows of a street.

He rocketed down Ludgate Hill, and when he glanced over his shoulder a few seconds later, he didn’t see any signs of pursuit.

Crowley turned his attention back to the street and gained a bit more altitude, keeping height with the rooftops as he neared Mayfair.

He found his building and dropped to the street outside, sending a nearby group of drunken teenagers scrambling backwards and falling into each other.

Crowley tucked his wings away and ignored them as he sprinted past the Bentley and through the doors.

He took the lift to his flat and hastily waved his way inside. He crossed directly to the cartoon of the _Mona Lisa,_ lifted it off the wall, and propped the sword up next to it. He unlocked the safe and pulled the door open.

Crowley took a deep breath, listening for sounds of commotion from outside, but all was quiet. He drew out the long PVC gloves and pulled them on. Then he picked up the tongs and began to unscrew the cap of the flask.

After a long, tense minute, Crowley set the tongs back down in the safe. He pulled the freshly-filled bucket out of its place and walked with it over to the door to his flat. As far as Crowley was concerned, this strategy had worked once and there was no sense in thinking it wouldn’t work again. He set the bucket on top of the ajar door and returned to the safe.

Next he drew forth what he thought was one of his cleverest and possibly most reckless ideas yet: a Nerf Super Soaker 2000. Nearly half a metre long and fitted with a sixteen-ounce pressurised reservoir, it was guaranteed to shoot water up to ten metres and was completely leak-proof.

Crowley had tested this last claim extensively, wearing an all-white linen suit and filling the super soaker with coloured tap water. It performed reasonably well, and Crowley had taken it upon himself to duct tape those few areas that had proven troublesome. There was still a considerable risk involved, though, so Crowley kept the long rubber gloves on and prayed that the bucket would do the job for him.

He set the super soaker gently behind the sofa, closed up the safe, and replaced the _Mona Lisa_. Then he retrieved the sword and, after a moment of staring around his lounge wondering where to hide it where it wouldn’t be completely irretrievable in an emergency, shoved it under the sofa cushions. Preparations now completed, Crowley hunkered down behind the sofa, where he had a good line of sight to the door, and pointed the super soaker at it.

The seconds ticked by, and Crowley began to wonder worriedly if Crawleigh hadn’t worked out where he’d gone. He’d been counting on Crawleigh realising where he must be headed based on his trajectory, but it was possible he’d got his double more turned around in London’s twisting streets than he’d thought.

Crowley shifted behind the sofa, adjusting his position as his feet started to cramp. He’d just finished glancing down at his watch when there was a terrific crash from behind him and several dozen small projectiles pelted his back.

He ducked automatically and twisted, swivelling the barrel of the super soaker around to face this new threat. Tiny fragments of glass cascaded off his jacket and tinkled to the floor.

He was just in time to see Crawleigh roll smoothly to his feet and advance on him, dark wings half-spread behind him. A blast of cool air hit him a fraction of a second later, and Crowley distractedly registered the broken window and fallen plant behind his double.

Crowley took hasty aim with the super soaker and laid his finger on the plastic trigger. Crawleigh, still a stride away, reached out with his hand, clenched his fist around thin air, and dragged it sharply to the side. The super soaker flew from Crowley’s hands and slammed into the wall next to his collection of soul music. Crowley’s eyes tracked it fearfully as it landed on the floor, but no water spilled onto the carpet.

He saw Crawleigh still approaching out of the corner of his eye, and realised dimly that his double wasn’t slowing his pace. He started to turn back around, raising a hand in defence, and caught the full force of Crawleigh’s foot as it contacted with his cheek.

Crowley toppled backwards, one side of his face exploding with pain as he felt the other brush the soft, nine-twist surface of his luxury carpet before he could catch himself.

He wheezed in a surprised breath, head ringing. He started to push himself to his feet and promptly collapsed again as Crawleigh slammed his foot into Crowley’s ribs next.

“Where is it?” Crawleigh demanded, pausing in his attack long enough for Crowley to spit out a mouthful of blood. It felt like one of his gums was bleeding.

Crowley pushed himself slowly back into a sitting position, until Crawleigh growled in frustration and reached down. He grabbed Crowley by the lapels and pulled him up into a sitting position, shoving him up against the back of the sofa.

Crowley made a show of feeling around his jaw with his tongue. Behind Crawleigh and off to the side, the bucket of holy water silently lifted itself off the top of the door and started inching its way closer.

“The sword, you rat—where’s the sword?” Crawleigh demanded, pulling Crowley forward slightly by the lapels so he could ram him back into the sofa again.

Crowley held up a hand and coughed, trying to look as pathetic as possible. Behind Crawleigh, the bucket floated closer.

Crawleigh growled but released Crowley long enough for him to wipe his bloodied mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Why do you c—care about it so much?” Crowley asked, stammering on purpose for once. The bucket was only a metre behind Crawleigh now, very close to the demon’s perfectly groomed wings. This would require some very careful timing.

“That’sss none of your bloody businessss,” Crawleigh hissed. “Jussst tell me—”

Crowley wasn’t sure what gave him away. He wasn’t looking in the direction of the bucket, and he didn’t think he was reflexively moving his hand to guide its path. Maybe Crawleigh heard the faint sloshing of the water behind him, or was suspicious that Crowley had given up so easily.

In any case, Crawleigh spun on the spot and made a quick gesture with his hand. Crowley simultaneously tipped the bucket and threw himself out of harm’s way. He rolled clumsily back to his feet and glanced over his shoulder to see the bucket, contents and all, vaporising in what looked like a colossal fireball.

Crowley hastily turned and crossed the few short metres to his soul music collection. He scooped the super soaker up from the floor and turned, gloved hands falling into place.

For a second time, Crawleigh made a fist and yanked the water gun from Crowley’s grip, one of Crowley’s long PVC gloves coming half-off along with it. Crowley lunged after the super soaker this time, but it zipped mindlessly towards the destroyed window and tossed itself outside. A heartbeat later there came the faint sound of a crash and plastic splintering, and someone shouting.

“None of that,” Crawleigh growled. “Sword. Now.”

For a moment they stared at each other, Crowley breathing quite heavily and feeling a bruise blossoming on his cheek as he distractedly stripped off his now-useless gloves. Then he lunged for the television.

Crawleigh lurched after him, but he had to run around the corner of the sofa to intercept him. Crowley reached his flat screen television first and leapt uncoordinatedly onto its narrow cabinet, shoving himself between the telly and the wall as Crawleigh skidded closer. Crowley shoved the television off its cabinet, sparks shooting as the wires tore themselves free, and the telly toppled forward and slammed into Crawleigh just as he reached him.

Crawleigh staggered backwards as the screen of the television shattered, sending splinters flying, and Crowley leapt off the cabinet and made for the door.

Before he’d made it more than two steps, Crawleigh’s hand closed around his wrist and yanked him backwards. Unwilling to get too close to the shattered remains of the television—some of which were sparking alarmingly—Crowley threw himself in the opposite direction and onto his oval-shaped, glass-topped coffee table.

Crawleigh pursued him almost immediately, and Crowley realised the folly of his decision as Crawleigh yanked on his arm and Crowley found himself slammed face-first against the top of his coffee table, jaw searing for a second time.

“Where—is—it?” Crawleigh growled, half-climbing onto the coffee table himself as Crowley twisted and tried to wriggle away. Crowley reached out and grabbed his attacker’s lapels, twisting further and dragging Crawleigh over himself and towards the far side of the coffee table.

This worked reasonably well, though Crawleigh grabbed onto him in turn as Crowley tried to roll his attacker off the edge of the table. Crowley was wrenched off the table as well, and for a moment they both landed squeezed in the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table.

Crowley was on top, and he took a free breath. The cushions of the sofa were right next to his face, and he knew that all he had to do was reach under them and he’d have a weapon. He might not be able to light the sword, but maybe he could do some damage without the divine flames. He didn’t want to risk discorporating his double—the last thing he wanted was his maniacal double running loose in Hell, potentially interfering with his attempt to rescue Aziraphale or getting him in trouble with the Dark Council—but maybe he could at least prevent Crawleigh from following him while he figured out how to get rid of him permanently.

All of this went through Crowley’s head in a fraction of a second, and he hastily settled on the sword as his best option. He began to stand up, intending on drawing the sword out from beneath the cushions as he did so. The moment he lifted his weight off Crawleigh, however, his double surged upwards, knocking one of Crowley’s legs out from under him.

Crowley staggered but caught himself with a hand on the sofa, pushing Crawleigh back down with a knee as he struggled to keep the upper hand. Crowley made a second attempt to gain his feet, sliding his hand between the sofa cushions as he did so.

Crawleigh grabbed the knee Crowley had pressed to his sternum and pushed it hard to the side as Crowley tried to reach his feet. He staggered again, and this time when Crawleigh scrambled upright, he shoved the nearer of Crowley’s legs up against the sofa and pinned it there with his own while he kicked fiercely at Crowley’s other knee with his free foot.

It was a brutally effective attack, and Crowley felt his legs collapse under himself yet again. He hit the floor hard and started hastily backing up, trying to put some space between himself and his double.

Crawleigh followed him, and Crowley desperately kicked out at his legs, his own still twinging. A bit to his surprise, his left foot contacted hard, and Crawleigh took an unsteady step backwards to catch himself. The back of his heel landed on one of the smooth shards of the shattered television screen, and his foot shot out from under him.

Crawleigh toppled backwards as Crowley hastily scrambled to his feet and lunged for the sofa. He shoved his arm under the cushions until he felt his hand close around the cool hilt of the sword. He twisted back around, drawing the sword out after him, and it wasn’t until he’d drawn it up into a defensive position that he realised that Crawleigh hadn’t moved from his place sprawled on the floor.

Crowley’s eyes tracked in confusion to the coffee table, where a bright red smear lined the edge of the bevelled glass surface.

Crowley slowly lowered the sword, breathing heavily. The side of his face burned, his left knee was still twinging unhappily, and it felt like a bruise might be forming along his ribs.

Ignoring his injuries for the moment and keeping the sword at the ready, Crowley slowly circled his sofa until he was squinting down at the back of Crawleigh’s motionless head.

He crouched down a safe distance away and carefully prodded at his double with the tip of the sword. When he didn’t stir, Crowley cautiously reached over and half-turned him over. There was a large cut on his double’s temple, and two smeared lines of blood trailed down his cheek. Crowley frowned at the stain forming on his pristine carpet.

Deciding to deal with his flat’s aesthetics at a more appropriate time, Crowley carefully felt his double’s neck for a pulse. He found one almost straight away, and decided that no serious damage had been done.

Crowley let out a breath, wincing as his side flared in response. He needed to deal with Crawleigh permanently, but without any holy water he didn’t have a lot of options. The divine sword had already failed him.

Crowley frowned down at the blade in his hand, wondering what quality in himself it found lacking. He remembered what Crawleigh had said about the sword having once belonged to the Aziraphale in his universe.

He turned it over slowly in his hand and made up his mind. His next priority had to be rescuing Aziraphale, and he knew that the angel could both light the sword and bless holy water. Either way, they could deal with Crawleigh after he made sure Aziraphale was out of harm’s way.

So Crowley tossed the sword onto the sofa, grabbed his double around the armpits, and started dragging him in the direction of his loo.


	8. A Tale of Two Crowleys

Crowley tore his way into Hell with more urgency than he’d ever shown before.

He descended rapidly through the first circle and slowed as he reached the second, trying to remember which way the infernal kennels lay.

It took him several moments of racking his mind to recall the exact location, and he quickly turned his feet in the appropriate direction. The second circle was quite large, but his memory didn’t fail him and it wasn’t long before he knew he was growing near.

Voices began to reach him shortly thereafter, echoing through the dark corridors, and they grew in volume as Crowley neared the kennels. Then he realised where exactly they must be coming from, and he felt his blood run cold.

Crowley broke into a sprint, soon finding himself in the rear of a crowd of lesser demons, all clamouring to get further forward.

“Oi!” Crowley shouted, pushing his way forward and raising the divine sword in his hand as an additional incentive. “Get out of here! Go!”

Crowley must have picked something up from his time impersonating Crawleigh in Hell, or maybe it was just the anger in his tone or the sword in his hand, but eyes turned on him and then quickly busied themselves looking at something else.

“Leave, _now_ ,” Crowley demanded. “All of you—out—get _out!”_

Demons started streaming past him, and Crowley planted his feet and glared daggers at them as they passed, avoiding his gaze. Crowley noticed one of them was clutching a few long, white feathers, and he grabbed the demon’s wrist.

“Where did you get those?” he demanded.

The demon squirmed in his grip, eyes growing wide. “Th—there,” she stammered, jerking her head back in the direction they were coming from.

Crowley swivelled his head to follow her gaze, a fresh round of fear and anger coursing through him. The demon wrenched herself from his grasp and vanished into the crowd. Crowley swung his head back around, scowling, but let her go. He returned his attention to where he was going and pushed his way forward as the last of the demons streamed past him, heads down.

Crowley rounded a bend in the corridor and found himself faced with a gate set into the rock, the bars dark and slick. Crowley moved forwards quickly, heart hammering in his chest.

“Aziraphale?” he hissed worriedly, moving closer and peering through the gate. And that was when he saw him—Aziraphale was sitting on the cavern floor not far away, head back, wings half-folded on either side of his body. He was cast in shadow, but he didn’t look like he was doing very well, and Crowley could see the glimmer of blood and several sheaves of feathers missing from the wing closest to him.

“Zira, if you can hear me, hold on,” Crowley said quickly, propping the divine sword up against the rock and turning his attention to the gate itself. He tried tugging on the door, but it didn’t move. Crowley ran his hands nervously over the cold metal, trying to remember how gates like this opened. He recalled that sometimes the bolts were released by levers placed out of reach of the cage, so that the occupant couldn’t escape but anyone coming from the outside had access—a slightly more secure system than the key-on-a-peg method.

Crowley retraced his steps, running his hands over the dark rock. He quickly found the lever he was looking for, hidden—as predicted—just out of sight of the gate. Crowley wrapped his fingers around its rusted surface and pulled hard, the metal screeching under his hand.

Crowley forced the lever all the way down and heard the gate pop open.

He quickly abandoned the lever and rushed back to the gate, pushing it open further with a quiet creak. He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the demons were returning—it didn’t look like it—and hurried into the cavern.

He only made it two steps before he skidded to a halt, eyes latching onto what was unmistakably the body of a hellhound. And, behind it, another body, dull eyes still snarling. The outlines of two more loomed behind that one, hindquarters lost in the darkness.

“By Go—Sa—somebody.” Crowley raised the back of a hand to his mouth as the smell hit him, the stench of blood and sweat and something dirtier. If the sword refused to light for him, Crowley decided with a flash of anger, he’d strangle Crawleigh with his bare hands, just for the satisfaction.

Crowley quickly turned his attention back to Aziraphale as he crossed to him, clumps of blood-stained straw sticking to the soles of his shoes. Crowley knelt beside his friend, extending a hand but hesitating when he wasn’t sure where to put it. Aziraphale was very pale, and one shoulder was a mess of blood where it looked like one of the hellhounds had done its best to tear a great chunk away and nearly succeeded. As if that wasn’t bad enough, three huge gashes ran along Aziraphale’s left knee, which Crowley had no trouble identifying as claw marks. There was also a series of what looked like toothmarks in Aziraphale’s far wing, which was closed at an odd angle and looked like it had been bleeding heavily.

“A—Aziraphale?” Crowley stammered, voice cracking in fear as he gently touched his friend on his uninjured shoulder. “Zira? Angel?” He moved his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel’s skin was alarmingly cool under his own. But when he shifted his hand a little lower, fingers reaching desperately along Aziraphale’s neck, he felt the faint but steady movement of a pulse. Crowley let out a slightly strangled gasp of relief; Aziraphale was still alive.

Crowley cast another glance towards the gate—it was still open and the space behind it deserted—and decided that he could start healing Aziraphale once he was certain they weren’t going to get locked in here. He’d taken some time to heal his own injuries on the way down, and now regretted doing so; he hadn’t been that badly hurt, and the energy he’d used on himself would have been better served helping Aziraphale.

Crowley turned back to the angel and moved alongside him, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s back, just under his wings. Next, he ducked his head under Aziraphale’s uninjured arm so that the angel’s arm was slung over his shoulders, Aziraphale’s head lolling towards him. Crowley counted to three under his breath and then forced himself to his knees, drawing Aziraphale upwards with him.

Aziraphale stirred against him slightly as Crowley forced himself to his feet, legs trembling as he struggled to support the weight of his friend sagging against him. He was definitely going to have to get Aziraphale walking under his own power if they wanted to get out of here in one piece.

Crowley staggered towards the gate, veering somewhat off course under Aziraphale’s weight. He drew in deep breaths as they crossed the relatively short distance, keeping Aziraphale as upright as possible against him.

Crowley ducked as he led Aziraphale through the gate, and once they’d passed the threshold he felt Aziraphale suddenly stiffen against him. Crowley turned his head towards his friend, drawing breath to ask if he was all right, and that was when Aziraphale slammed him into the wall.

Crowley gasped as all the air left his lungs, and then Aziraphale’s hands closed around his throat.

 

***

 

The smooth porcelain of the edge of the toilet bowl was cool against Crawleigh’s cheek as he felt himself flicker back to consciousness.

There was a sharp pounding coming from his right temple, and as his vision slowly steadied he realised with a mixture of embarrassment and disgust that the other version of him—Crowley—must have knocked him out somehow. He could feel the tingle of a few spells laid over him to keep him unconscious, but Crawleigh had rendered himself impervious to hostile magic some millennia ago, so it was no matter.

Grimacing, Crawleigh started to gather himself to his feet. He didn’t get very far before his wrist tugged him back down, and his eyes tracked to where Crowley had evidently handcuffed him to the U-bend under the sink in his loo.

“Of all the—blast it—” Crawleigh glanced at his watch and swore again as he realised that he must have been sitting here for the last hour. He’d missed his appointment with Michael. And all because his irritating _parallel self_ had been feeling _sentimental_. It was disgusting.

Of course, he’d needed the sword for his ploy with Michael to work—he could open the portal easily enough on his own, but Michael would have needed to think he was a credible threat before being willing to chase him through a portal with an unknown destination.

He could always contact the Metatron again and make up some lie about his safety being compromised—hence his inability to meet as arranged—but he still needed the sword for that. It was likely Crowley had taken it with him, and even more likely that he’d gone straight to Hell to rescue the besotted angel—or what was left of him.

So perhaps Crawleigh could combine business with pleasure; he needed the sword, but there was no sense in not having a bit of fun on the side. The ones who _cared_ were always the most fun to break, and this was personal.

Crawleigh healed the wound on his temple with a thought and directed his gaze to the handcuffs next, which clicked open at his command.

As he straightened up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. He’d miracled the blood away from his injury as well, but it was his goatee he was frowning at now. He had pioneered the fashion among demons, but was thinking now that perhaps it was worth updating his look to better suit his current needs.

Crawleigh picked up the razor sitting on the edge of the sink and smiled at his reflection.

 

***

 

Aziraphale closed his hands around Crowley’s throat and squeezed.

Crowley wheezed in surprise, hands flying automatically to Aziraphale’s as he tried to pry the angel’s fingers free.

Aziraphale squeezed harder, ignoring the spurts of white-hot pain through his injured shoulder. “Enjoying it now?” he growled, savouring the adrenaline shooting through his veins.

Crowley’s hands closed around his own, and he met Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale read shock and fear there, along with confusion and something like pain. There was no sign of the cold anger that had filled his beautiful eyes when he’d trapped Aziraphale in this nightmare.

 _He’s a good liar,_ Aziraphale reminded himself. _This is proof. He’s trying to trick you again. It’s all part of the deception._

Crowley’s hands tightened on his own, and it looked like he was trying to shake his head. His eyes flicked to the gate and back to Aziraphale.

 _He’s trying to tell me something_ , Aziraphale thought, but quickly dismissed the notion. _He’s trying to distract me,_ he amended, tightening his grip.

Crowley made a truly painful sound, a wheeze mixed with a wet choking noise, and it took a great deal of concentration for Aziraphale not to loosen his grip.

 _This is right,_ he told himself firmly. He remembered the pain in his shoulder, and how Crowley had lured him into a false sense of security and then pulled the floor out from under him. He was a snake, and always had been, right from the start.

“You—you _betrayed_ me,” Aziraphale forced out, voice thick. He allowed the emotion to roll over him anew, anger mixed with a pain that ran all the way to his core. “I—I _trusted_ you—”

Crowley moved one hand from where Aziraphale’s were closed around his throat and made a frantic motion, pointing to himself, then to the gate, and making little “off” motions with his hand. Then he pointed to himself and held up two fingers.

Aziraphale had no idea what he was trying to convey. _He’s just trying to distract you_ , he reminded himself.

Crowley gave another tiny wet sound, and Aziraphale felt the demon’s throat convulse under his hands. Crowley’s gesturing hand fell back to Aziraphale’s arm and clung to his sleeve. His eyelids began to droop.

It was then that some small part of Aziraphale realised with something almost like worry that Crowley wasn’t fighting back. He was still weakly trying to dig his fingers between Aziraphale’s palm and his throat with one hand, but his other was just clinging to Aziraphale’s arm. He wasn’t trying to kick Aziraphale in the shins—his injured knee would have made a great target—and neither was he trying to scratch at Aziraphale’s face or skin. He was just trying to keep breathing.

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, and felt a sudden prick of doubt.

 _Remember what he did to you_ , the voice in his head reminded him. _This is your revenge. This is what he deserves; this is justice. This is_ right _._

Except it didn’t feel right at all. It felt like he was strangling his best friend.

Aziraphale abruptly let go and took a step backwards, legs shaking.

Crowley slumped back against the wall and listed to one side, barely catching himself from falling with a hand on the wall. His other was on his throat, and he made tiny, desperate wheezing noises.

Shaken and suddenly uncertain, Aziraphale watched him nervously. He felt for Crowley’s aura, and there it was—feeling as reassuringly _Crowley_ as it always had. It felt the same as it had when Crowley had locked him in with the hounds, but it also felt like the Crowley he had spent the last six millennia with.

Crowley dropped to his knees, bent very far over with one hand still on his throat, and Aziraphale registered with concern that he was still having trouble breathing. Aziraphale must have crushed his windpipe.

And, suddenly, the demon on his hands and knees in front of him wasn’t responsible for all the suffering that visited him; instead, it was _Crowley_ , whom Aziraphale had never been able to stop himself from helping.

Aziraphale took a step forward and sank to the ground beside Crowley. The demon was shaking quite badly and wheezing hoarsely, one hand still clamped around his throat. Miracles required a fair amount of concentration, though, and Aziraphale guessed that Crowley must not be thinking straight enough to be able to heal himself.

So Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and funnelled into him the tiny amount of magic he’d regained over the past few hours, shivering as he felt himself weaken.

Crowley took a slightly stronger wheezing gasp and shook violently, one hand still on his throat. Then Crowley’s next wheeze was stronger still, and a few gasping breaths later he seemed to have cleared his head enough to have repaired most of the damage.

Crowley sat up and leaned his back against the rock wall, one hand still hesitating over the red marks on his throat as he looked at Aziraphale.

“It wasn’t me,” he rasped hoarsely, golden eyes pleading. “I ssswear, Aziraphale, it wasssn’t me.”

Aziraphale looked at his friend and felt something like relief wash over every atom in his body, quickly followed by shame. This was exactly what he needed to hear—he didn’t want to believe that Crowley had betrayed him. To an extent, he didn’t even care if it was true; he just wanted to go back to the way things had been before. Maybe he could care about it more later, but right now he burned all over and just wanted to seek comfort in Crowley’s presence.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t about to argue.

“There’s—this is going to sound ridiculous—” Crowley said, voice beginning to strengthen as he gently massaged his throat, “but there’s an evil version of myself from a parallel universe running around.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but could find nothing fitting to say.

 _That’s about the most far-fetched rubbish I’ve ever heard_ , said the dark voice in Aziraphale’s head.

“There was this—this—portal,” Crowley rasped. “It opened up in my lounge, and this person who looked just like me came through it. He attacked me, so I jumped through the portal, but then I was in that other world, and it was horrible and you—you—I was the Emperor of Hell.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley in disbelief.

_Wow. I figured he would try to claim his innocence, but—wow._

“I just got back—I can tell you all about it later—but listen, that other version of me’s still running around.”

 _It’s a trap_ , said the voice in Aziraphale’s head, a little incredulously. _You know it’s a trap._

“Is that a lie?” Aziraphale asked Crowley bluntly. His shoulder was burning worse than ever, now that the tiny bit of magic he’d managed to regain had faded away with the surge of adrenaline, and he felt weak and cold all over.

“No,” Crowley wheezed in surprise. He reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “I didn’t lock you in there, or—or leave you with those hellhounds. I would never do that. You know me. Please believe me.” Crowley looked at him a little desperately, and the fear was plain in his eyes.

 _I used to know you_ , Aziraphale thought wretchedly. _Now I—I don’t know._ He swallowed, unnerved by the sincerity in Crowley’s eyes. He had seen the same sincerity in his friend's eyes as he’d left Aziraphale on the wrong side of the gate, and he didn’t know if he could trust it anymore. “I—”

Crowley’s grip strengthened on his wrist and a look of comprehension dawned on his face. “It’s Hell,” he said quickly. “You’ve been down here awhile, haven’t you? And you’re injured—your aura’s very weak. Hell plays games with your head.”

_Well, isn’t that convenient?_

But the certainty Aziraphale had formed while staring at the bodies of the hellhounds was crumbling. Crowley’s hand was still steady on his, and Aziraphale wanted to believe him more than he’d ever wanted anything. He just wanted his friend back, and for everything to be okay again.

“Here,” Crowley said, and adjusted his grip on Aziraphale’s wrist. A warm tingling feeling travelled up Aziraphale’s arm, and he realised Crowley was healing him.

 _Stop him_ , hissed the voice in Aziraphale’s head urgently. _It’s a trap._

Except the pain from Aziraphale’s shoulder was beginning to lessen, and if it was a trap then it was one Aziraphale was willing to fall into. He let out a breath and settled himself further onto the hard stone ground, closing his eyes and leaning towards Crowley slightly.

The warmth continued to flow into him, and he felt his knee begin to mend itself as well, the flesh knitting itself seamlessly back together.

 _He’s just going to hurt you again_ , the voice hissed, though it was slightly fainter now. _He’s only healing you so he can hurt you again. You think this means he still cares for you? He’s just toying with you and luring you into a false sense of security. You saw the sword, right? What’s it for? Where’d he get it? It can kill angels._

And suddenly Aziraphale’s newfound resolve was shaken. He was vulnerable when Crowley was healing him, and all it would take was a quick change of intent in the demon’s mind for him to wreak significant damage on Aziraphale from the inside out. Or for Aziraphale, sitting here with his eyes closed, to feel the prick of the divine blade on his ribs…

_He destroys you in the way he knows will hurt you most._

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath, eyes flying open, and he yanked his hand away from Crowley’s, scrambling backwards.

Crowley looked up immediately, eyes darting around the empty corridor and then riveting themselves back on Aziraphale.

“Zira?”

“Just—just stay away from me,” Aziraphale croaked, pressing himself against the opposite wall.

A hurt expression came over Crowley’s face, quickly replaced with concern and a sort of forced calm.

“O—okay,” Crowley said, but he started moving towards Aziraphale anyway.

“Stay over there, I said,” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley froze. Aziraphale raised a hand to his forehead, trying to sort through the haze of pain and conflicting emotions.

_The sword. Why would he have the sword, if not to torture or kill you with it? How about you grab it and give him a taste of his own medicine._

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the angelic sword, still sitting propped up against a nearby fissure in the rock. He was closer to it than Crowley was.

Crowley traced his gaze and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Aziraphale lunged for the sword. Crowley made a movement towards him but stopped himself as Aziraphale’s hand closed around the hilt.

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet and Crowley did the same, the demon holding his hands wide, palms out.

“Aziraphale, it’s me. Please; it wasn’t me who locked you in there. You know it wasn’t me.”

 _You should kill him now_ , the voice said maliciously. _He talks too much. He’ll try to convince you he’s innocent, and that his evil twin conveniently did those horrible things to you. He’s a liar._

Aziraphale raised the sword and kept it pointed in Crowley’s general direction, eyes tracking the demon’s movements.

He’d gone a little pale, hands still raised in what now looked like surrender. There was a smear of blood on his shirt from helping Aziraphale back through the dreadful gate, and he looked haggard and stressed.

“Please, Aziraphale,” Crowley pleaded. “This place is messing with your head. Let’s go back up to Earth; that’ll help.”

“Don’t move.”

_Kill him now. Just run him through. It would be easy. You’ve done it before. Then you can put all of this behind you._

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the hilt of the sword, and flames began licking along the blade.

“I get it,” Crowley said quickly, voice cracking as his eyes flicked between the tip of the sword and its wielder. “You don’t believe me. You have no—no reason to. But I can prove it.”

Aziraphale kept his gaze on Crowley.

“On Earth,” Crowley said earnestly, locking eyes with Aziraphale, “that other version of me is in my flat. I knocked him out, and he’s handcuffed to the sink in the loo. I was, er, actually hoping you could help me get rid of him.”

 _More lies_ , the voice hissed. _If all this is true, why would he still be alive? Crowley could have killed him with this sword, or the holy water you gave him. He’s just trying to lure you up to Earth for some reason. There’s probably a trap there._

“Why isn’t he dead?” Aziraphale asked, the tip of the sword wavering as his arm tired, the flames growing brighter.

“I—I couldn’t get the sword to light,” Crowley stammered. “And he vaporised all the holy water.”

_Well, isn’t that awfully convenient?_

“Stop lying,” Aziraphale said, taking a bold half step towards Crowley and raising the sword further, so that its point was aimed at Crowley’s throat.

Crowley retreated immediately, and there was a flash of fear in his eyes now.

_Good._

“Zira, p—please,” Crowley pleaded, and his voice caught. “I know it doesssn’t sssound very believable, but it’sss the truth, I ssswear to you. I—I—tell me what I can do to convince you.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley uncertainly, but the sword was steady in his hand.

 _Just extend your arm a bit further,_ the voice urged Aziraphale. _Let him feel the bite of the blade…you could go slowly if you wanted, and see how long his lies hold out._

“A—Aziraphale,” Crowley tried, and there was a glint on his cheek as a tear rolled down it. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you, but I want to make it right. Let me heal you.” He sounded like he was begging.

 _He’s trying to lure you into feeling sympathetic towards him_ , warned the voice. _Crying makes him appear more earnest_.

Aziraphale took in the distraught demon before him and, despite the voice’s urgings, couldn’t stop himself from feeling a pang of concern. He very rarely saw Crowley cry, and then only when the demon was under extreme physical or emotional duress. Crowley was in pain, and Aziraphale wanted to help him. The tip of the sword wavered.

 _Just kill him, you coward_ , the voice snapped.

Aziraphale ground his teeth together and turned slightly, pulling the sword a few inches away from its place at Crowley’s throat.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “Just— _God_ —just shut up!”

The flames along the sword dwindled lower.

Aziraphale glared at the ground, but the voice in his head fell silent. Aziraphale took a long, shaking breath, and turned his attention back to Crowley, who’d frozen in place. There were a few tear tracks glinting on his cheeks, and he looked very alone and frightened. Aziraphale’s heart ached.

“You,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at Crowley with the sword. “Talk to me.”

“There’s an alternate universe,” Crowley supplied immediately, nervously licking his lips, “and in it I’m the ruler of Hell and you’re…” Crowley swallowed. “You’re dead in that universe. I—I killed you. The other me, I mean. But he’s a maniac. He wants to start the Apocalypse in his world, except he already killed Michael and he needs him for the final battle. So he opened a portal to our universe to take _our_ Michael back to _his_ world. His portal opened into my flat like I said, and I’ve been trapped in his world for the last few days. I was trying to find a way back, I swear—his world’s _Hell_.”

Aziraphale absorbed this.

 _That makes sense,_ Aziraphale told himself firmly. _That all fits together._

 _Occam’s razor,_ the voice argued back. _His story is convoluted. And he would have had plenty of time to think through all of this. You know how good of an actor he is._

Aziraphale growled a little, wishing the voice would go drown itself in a lake somewhere.

Crowley blanched even further, and Aziraphale realised he’d thought his response was aimed at him.

“The Ritz,” Crowley said quickly. “St James’s. I was supposed to meet you at St James’s on Thursday. But that other me—the one with the beard—that was the morning he came into my flat. When was the last time I didn’t keep an appointment with you?”

Aziraphale kept the sword raised, but the flames began to fizzle out along its blade.

“And the beard!” Crowley continued earnestly. “The other me has a goatee—would I wear a beard like that, really?”

Aziraphale felt something like a spark of hope within himself. “The goatee was the other one?” he asked.

Crowley nodded earnestly. “You know I haven’t worn a beard in ages.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, wondering suddenly if he’d misjudged the entire situation. “No,” he agreed, slowly lowering the sword.

Crowley took a few hesitant steps closer. “And I saw he killed my plants, too. You know how I like my plants to be green.”

Aziraphale lowered the sword the rest of the way. Now that Crowley was pointing out the oddities in his behaviour, he found himself warming more and more to Crowley’s story. And, if Crowley was telling the truth, then everything was going to be okay. He could have his friend back.

“The greenest in London,” Aziraphale agreed, and when Crowley drew close enough, he pulled the demon into a hug, being careful to mind the blade of the sword.

Crowley gasped in relief as Aziraphale pulled him close, and quickly buried his face in Aziraphale’s uninjured shoulder, hands bunching themselves tightly in the back of Aziraphale’s jumper.

Crowley quivered against him, and Aziraphale felt suddenly very certain that he’d made the right decision.

“Crowley—I—I’m sorry,” Aziraphale managed, wrapping his arms more fully around his friend and telling himself quite loudly that this was the truth he chose to believe. He knew Crowley better than he knew himself, and he was beginning to remember the strength of his own certainty that the Crowley who had locked him in with the hellhounds wasn’t the one he knew so well. Aziraphale couldn’t remember when he’d lost that certainty, but was ashamed to have ever thought that Crowley might have betrayed him like this. “I—I can’t keep everything straight,” he whispered hoarsely.

“’S okay,” Crowley told him, and pulled away a little. “Come on, let’s get back to Earth, and you’ll feel better.”

Aziraphale nodded and let Crowley take his hand, leading him through the tunnel and away from the awful gate.

 _It’s a trap_ , the voice told him again, sounding a little exasperated.

“I don’t believe you,” Aziraphale told it.

“What was that?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing.”

It was then that all the light in the tunnel suddenly vanished, plunging them into complete darkness.

“Azira—” Crowley’s voice began, grip tightening on Aziraphale’s hand, and then Crowley gasped and his hand was wrenched away.

Aziraphale staggered after it, trying to grab hold again, but he couldn’t see two inches in front of his face and he felt like he was drowning in ink.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said loudly, voice an octave higher than usual.

 _Triiiiick_ , the voice trilled.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called again, struggling to blot out the growing panic and coldness in his chest. Had he been wrong, after all? He’d wanted to believe Crowley _so much—_

Aziraphale heard a gasp from somewhere off to his right, and there was a scuffling noise and a faint thump. Aziraphale staggered blindly towards the source of the noise.

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale said, but he was still drained of his power and there was only a faint flicker of blue light that quickly blinked out. “Light,” Aziraphale tried again, feeling the pang of emptiness in his chest that told him he was out of power, stars dancing across his blackened vision. One of Aziraphale’s hands found a rock wall and he leaned against it heavily as his chest grew tight.

There was a grunt from somewhere ahead of him, and then abruptly light flooded the corridor as the torches burst back into flames.

Standing not far ahead of him, each trying to strangle the other, were two Crowleys.

Aziraphale stared at them in astonishment, and was somewhat surprised to see that Crowley hadn’t been lying after all.

_Well, I’ll be damned._

Aziraphale remembered that he was still holding the sword in one hand, and he raised it threateningly as the Crowleys slammed into the nearby wall, one of them gaining the advantage.

“Stop it!” Aziraphale said, moving forward and brandishing the sword. A little to his surprise, both Crowleys glanced at him and released the other. They exchanged suspicious glances.

“This is him!” said the Crowley on the right, whose cheek was red where his double had evidently got in a solid blow. “This is the—the other me, from that other world!”

“Oi, no!” protested the Crowley on the left, who had a smear of ash along one temple from one of the torches. “He’s lying. _He’s_ the evil one, Aziraphale!”

“Shut up!” snapped the first Crowley, spinning and glaring at his twin. “I see what you’re doing here, and I won’t let you.”

The other Crowley glared back with equal ferocity. “I am _not_ letting you hurt him any more than you already have,” he snarled, and sprang at his double.

He drove the other Crowley—the one with the bruised cheek—back into the rock wall, where that Crowley struck out with his feet, kicking at his attacker’s shins.

“Stop!” Aziraphale said, hastily stepping forward and raising the sword again, looking frantically back and forth between the two Crowleys as they exchanged blows, the fighting steadily growing dirtier as he watched. The thought that _his_ Crowley might be killed by his doppelgänger while he watched was forefront in his mind, and the prospect was terrifying.

“Stop it, I said,” Aziraphale repeated, and, minding the blade of the sword, he pushed himself between the two demons.

“Zira, get out of the way, I’ll get him,” the Crowley on his right panted.

“Stay out of this, angel,” the Crowley on his left pleaded.

“Stop—just—stop,” Aziraphale gasped, forcing the two of them apart and out of reach of each other, wincing at the strain on his injured shoulder. “If you’re the real Crowley, just stop.”

Both Crowleys ceased fighting.

_Great._

“I’m the real one,” the Crowley on his right said immediately.

“This is just what he wants!” the Crowley on his left interjected. “He’s trying to manipulate you!”

“Shut up, you bastard,” growled the Crowley on his right.

“ _I’m_ the real one, Zira, you know I am,” pleaded the Crowley on his left, returning his attention to Aziraphale and grabbing onto his free hand.

“Just—just hang on for a moment,” Aziraphale said, struggling to think of an appropriate course of action. His shoulder ached, and he was still very tired and cold. What could he do to find out which Crowley was the real one?

 _Remember Solomon,_ the voice in Aziraphale’s head said reasonably. _Threaten what only the real Crowley would care about. Like...yourself._

 _Yeah, that’s a stupid idea,_ Aziraphale retorted, recalling the biblical tale and struggling to keep his attention on the present.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, not looking at either of them, “we’re going to think through this, okay? Whichever one of you is real” —Aziraphale looked back and forth between them— “you have nothing to fear.”

“ _Excellent_ idea, angel,” the Crowley on his left said.

“Okay,” the Crowley on his right agreed.

“Okay,” Aziraphale repeated, looking between them. He took a few steps backwards so he wouldn’t have to keep turning his head to get them both in his line of sight. The two Crowley exchanged suspicious glances but kept their hands to themselves. The Crowley with the bruise on his cheek raised a hand to it gingerly.

Aziraphale looked back and forth between them. They looked nearly identical. Both were wearing virtually the same suit, and both looked haggard and harassed. There were even splotches of blood on both of their shirts, and Aziraphale hadn’t been paying close enough attention earlier to remember the pattern on _his_ Crowley’s shirt. And, oddly enough, both were clean-shaven.

“Didn’t one of you have a beard?” Aziraphale asked, looking back and forth between them.

The Crowleys looked at each other and adopted equally surprised looks.

“He must have shaved it,” the Crowley on the right said.

The Crowley on the left scowled. “Clever bastard.”

Next, Aziraphale looked back and forth between their faces. He was looking to see which one showed signs of having been crying recently, but they both looked like they’d been doing so, which was frustrating.

“Ask us something,” urged the Crowley on the left. “Ask him something only you and I would know. He killed his Aziraphale, remember.”

The other Crowley’s scowl deepened, but when he turned his attention back to Aziraphale his expression was open. “Ask me anything,” he invited.

Aziraphale took a moment, trying to focus his thoughts around the pounding in his head.

“What year did we come to the terms of our Arrangement?” he asked.

The Crowley on the right looked suddenly exasperated. “Oh, come on, angel, you want a date? You know I don’t know anymore; that was ages ago.”

“He doesn’t know!” the other Crowley pointed out triumphantly. “He’s the imposter!”

“It was in the early 1000s,” the Crowley on the right supplied, sounding a little desperate. “It might have been summer? I don’t remember; it was all hot in those days.”

 _The fake Crowley was at Crowley’s flat, though,_ the voice in Aziraphale’s head pointed out. _Who knows what he picked up there?_

 _I need a better question_ , Aziraphale thought, but his shoulder was burning worse than ever and he didn’t want to go through this rigamarole right now.

“Ask me something else,” the Crowley on the right pleaded. “Or, better yet, ask him a question. Ask him about—about—game shows and wi-fi and Tube adverts! His timeline never makes it out of the 1920s, technologically.”

“No!” the Crowley on the left protested, looking suddenly furious. “That’s clever!” He turned his attention back to Aziraphale, locking eyes with him. There was a plea there for Aziraphale to understand. “He’s been on Earth for a few days, remember? He must have spent some time catching up on all the human inventions; it’s what I would have done.”

“Ask him about technology!” the Crowley on the right cried. “Smart phones and television! Bluetooth! Something really specific!”

Aziraphale’s face grew pained, and he leaned against the nearby wall for support as a wave of shivers ran through him. “Yes, but I don’t know anything about those either.”

“Zira,” the Crowley on the left said worriedly, taking a quick step towards him. “Are you all right?”

“Get away from him,” growled the Crowley on the right, taking a step nearer as well, eyes never leaving his double.

“Aziraphale, look at me,” the Crowley on the left urged, and Aziraphale turned his head and met his gaze. Crowley’s face was open and honest, and Aziraphale just wanted to wrap his arms around him until all of this went away. “You know it’s me. We know each other.”

Aziraphale began to nod slowly.

“Don’t listen to him,” the other Crowley said urgently, taking another step closer. “Please, angel, ask us something else. I can prove I’m me.”

“Aziraphale,” the Crowley on his left said, slowly drawing nearer, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. He looked desperate and worried, and there was a depth of devotion in his eyes that Aziraphale had rarely seen. He leaned more heavily against the wall, feeling his strength ebbing away.

 _This must be the real Crowley_ , he thought hopefully. _Crowley cares._

“Don’t listen to him,” the Crowley on his right urged, but Aziraphale’s attention was arrested.

“Angel,” the Crowley on his left continued, voice thick and desperate. “You know it’s me. I—I love you.”

Aziraphale blinked at the demon in surprise, suddenly second-guessing himself. He knew Crowley cared for him a great deal, but he wouldn’t have expected Crowley to ever, in a million years, _admit_ it. Aziraphale’s gaze swung back to the Crowley on his right, who suddenly had his favour.

Except that that Crowley had turned his head and was glaring daggers at his double, hands balled into fists at his side. “You bassstard,” he hissed. “That’sss my line!”

Aziraphale stared between them in utter befuddlement. Crowley…loved him?

 _Maybe neither of them are real,_ the voice in his head suggested, sounding equally baffled. _If there’s one fake Crowley, who’s to say there aren’t dozens of them running around?_

The thought was chilling.

 _What if you never find your Crowley?_ the voice continued, strengthening in this new line of questioning. _Or what if he’s already dead somewhere, lying in a ditch, pretty eyes all glassy, body cold—_

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning heavily against the wall as a fresh wave of nausea rolled over him. He nervously adjusted his grip on the hilt of the sword, which was growing heavy in his hand.

“Zira,” one of the Crowleys began, voice pained.

“Oi!” the other Crowley broke in. “Did you see that?”

Aziraphale regrettably dragged his eyelids open, registering that the Crowley on the right was pointing accusatorily at his doppelgänger.

“He just _winked_ ,” the Crowley on the right cried. “The bloody _bastard_ —”

“I did no such thing!” protested the Crowley on the left. “Don’t you see what he’s trying to do, angel?”

Aziraphale had never been more confused in his entire life. The Crowley on the left was certainly acting more emotional, and the one on the right just seemed generally pissed off, but he could feasibly imagine Crowley acting either way in this scenario.

 _Eeny meeny miny moe?_ suggested the voice in Aziraphale’s head.

“You,” Aziraphale said, pointing to the Crowley on his left. “You’re the real one.”

“No!” the Crowley on his right protested, disbelief heavy in his tone. “No, you can’t—it’s _me_ , Zira!” He looked almost on the verge of tears.

“Thank somebody,” the Crowley on the left said, relief flooding his tone. He held out his hand and Aziraphale took it. Crowley’s skin was reassuringly warm against his own, and Aziraphale just wanted all of this to be over.

“You—I won’t let you—” the other Crowley cried, springing forward.

“Look out!” the Crowley holding Aziraphale’s hand said, quickly trying to pull the angel behind him.

But Aziraphale stood his ground and raised the sword, pointing it at the other Crowley.

“Don’t follow us,” Aziraphale warned, and flames started licking along the blade. “Stay here where you belong.”

The Crowley on the unfriendly end of the sword looked floored.

“No,” he said, eyes riveted on Aziraphale. “I—I don’t—it’s _me_.”

 _You should kill him_ , the voice in Aziraphale’s head suggested, but Aziraphale ignored it.

“Stay,” Aziraphale repeated, and let Crowley draw him down the hallway by the hand.

The other Crowley stared after them, a horrified expression on his face. He looked rooted to the spot, though, and hadn’t moved by the time he passed out of Aziraphale’s line of sight.

 _Good_ , Aziraphale thought. He turned and followed the Crowley he had chosen.

“That—I’ve got to say, that was close,” Crowley said, still leading him along by the hand.

Aziraphale made a sound of agreement. The sword was still flaming in his other hand, spreading light over the rock walls.

“Did you bring your shiny new Bentley?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded. “Naturally.”

“Can we listen to some Queen on the way home?” he asked. “I know you don’t hear it much, but I do like it.”

“After what you’ve been through, angel, anything.”

“Hang on a moment,” Aziraphale said, slowing down. He was exhausted and let it show.

Crowley slowed to a stop and looked back at him in confusion and concern. “What’s wrong?”

“This,” Aziraphale said, and ran him through.

Crowley gasped, his hands locking around Aziraphale’s as the angel buried the sword in his chest up to the hilt, bones cracking and disintegrating beneath the divine blade.

“You—you—” he stammered as Aziraphale felt his aura shatter.

“Good-bye,” Aziraphale said calmly, and drew the blade out.

The false Crowley collapsed to the rock floor of the hallway, shuddered slightly, and grew very still.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and leaned against the rock wall, shivering as he felt his shoulder start bleeding again.

“A—Aziraphale?” stammered a voice, and Aziraphale turned to see that the other Crowley had crept after them after all, and was currently hovering half out of view, looking down at his dead doppelgänger. His gaze roved back up to Aziraphale, face pale and serpentine eyes wide with fear and confusion.

“Oh, hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and the sword went out.

“Did—did you—?” Crowley asked, edging closer and staring down at his double.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said bluntly.

“Ah,” said Crowley, still edging closer. “You, er, you knew I was the real one all along, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond.

Crowley swallowed but continued drawing closer, nervously eyeing the sword in Aziraphale’s hand. “This isn’t some complicated triple bluff or something, is it?” he asked worriedly.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and gestured with his free hand for Crowley to come over.

Crowley looked slightly relieved, but his motions were hesitant as he crossed the remaining distance and came within striking distance of the sword still in Aziraphale’s hand. When he got close enough, Aziraphale pulled him into a one-armed hug with his good arm. Crowley leaned into it and shivered against him.

“You brought the Bentley, I imagine?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley rested his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Direct portal, actually.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding. “But, if you had, how would _you_ feel about listening to Queen on the way home?”

“I—I don’t think we would have had a lot of choice in the matter,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded and handed Crowley the sword. “Here, you can carry it if it makes you feel any better.”

Crowley nodded thankfully and accepted the sword, transferring it to his far hand.

“How are you doing?” Crowley asked. “Can I finish healing you now?”

Aziraphale was fairly certain this Crowley bore him no ill will, but he could still feel the dark voice lurking in his head, and wanted to be sure.

“Let’s get back to Earth first,” he suggested.

Crowley nodded and wrapped his arm securely around Aziraphale’s waist, looping Aziraphale’s uninjured arm around his shoulders so the angel could lean on him.

“Come on, then,” he said, and led them out of Hell.


	9. A Nice Cup of Tea

They emerged back into Crowley’s Mayfair flat through the portal Crowley had opened behind the sofa, the white circle dwindling shut behind them.

Aziraphale had begun to lean heavily on Crowley as they passed through the first circle, Crowley hissing quite fiercely at any demon unfortunate enough to cross their path, and now he quickly brought Aziraphale over to the sofa and helped him sink onto the soft cushions.

“Sorry about the mess,” Crowley said as he propped the sword up against the edge of the sofa. Shards of glass from the shattered window and television still littered the floor, and his begonia was lying withered on the floor near the window, pot overturned and soil scattered across the white carpet.

Aziraphale’s attention appeared to have been arrested by the dark red smear still on the edge of the coffee table, though, and he looked up at Crowley, expression a mix of concern and exhaustion. “Did you…?”

“Him, not me,” Crowley dismissed, hesitantly extending a hand towards Aziraphale’s injured shoulder, which was oozing fresh blood. “Can I…?”

Aziraphale flicked his gaze down to the table and turned his head away slightly. “Just…give me a moment.”

Crowley’s fingers twitched against each other nervously, but he nodded and quickly retracted his hand.

“Can I—er—get you anything?” Crowley asked, unwilling to stand by doing nothing while Aziraphale sat there by himself, very pale and clearly in pain. “A cup of tea or something?”

Aziraphale made an amused noise and looked up at him. “My dear, you don’t make tea.”

“No, but—” _but you spent the last who-knows-how-long in Hell and look like you’re about to faint at any minute_ , Crowley finished silently. _If you won’t let me heal you, then let me help you._ “I could try,” he settled on.

“If you want to,” Aziraphale said, eyelids sliding closed as he sank backwards into the sofa, grimacing a little.

Crowley nodded nervously and padded into his kitchen, looking around at his completely empty worktops. He supposed he could just miracle Aziraphale a cup of tea, but he’d got the impression that the angel needed a little breathing room, and the ritual of making actual tea would be a good way to distract himself.

So Crowley miracled an electric kettle into existence, plugged it into an outlet he had never once used before, filled the detachable kettle with water from the tap, replaced it on its base, and turned it on.

A pleasant blue light blinked on, and Crowley stared at it, waiting.

He kept his ears pricked for any sounds from Aziraphale in the next room, but he didn’t hear anything besides the faint squeaks of the cushions as Aziraphale shifted on the sofa.

After what seemed like forever, the kettle started making a slight gurgling noise, and shortly thereafter it beeped at him.

Crowley didn’t have any teacups on hand—his cupboards were equally as empty as his worktops—so he miracled one into existence and poured the hot water from the kettle into it.

Next, he miracled an Earl Grey tea bag into his hand and dropped it into the cup.

Crowley spent another three minutes staring at the cup and occasionally shifting the tea bag using the string.

Why wasn’t Aziraphale letting him heal him? The obvious answer was that he didn’t trust Crowley to do it, which made perfect sense given what had occurred. In fact, Aziraphale’s actions all made perfect sense, which was why Crowley didn’t understand why his stomach was tying itself in knots over them.

He knew he couldn’t honestly expect Aziraphale to magically forgive him for such a massive betrayal of his trust, even if Crowley hadn’t actually done the betraying, but that line of reasoning didn’t seem to offer much solace.

Crowley frowned at the tea worriedly and decided it had steeped long enough.

He pulled the bag out, miracled it away with a wave of his hand, and stirred in a bit of sugar and milk with a thought.

He brought it out of the kitchen and over to where Aziraphale was still sitting on the sofa, looking very tired.

“Here,” Crowley said, holding out the cup of tea.

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered open, gaze landing first on the teacup and then on Crowley. He looked almost surprised.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, carefully taking the tea from him. The ceramic cup trembled in his hand, and Crowley felt his worry double.

“Are you sure—” he began nervously.

Aziraphale gave a short sigh and stared down at his teacup. “Go ahead.”

Crowley blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale leaned forward, moving to set the teacup on the coffee table, but halfway through the motion he suddenly paled even further, hand shaking so strongly the tea threatened to splash over the rim.

Crowley quickly moved to help, taking the cup from the angel and setting it on the glass surface of the table.

Aziraphale shakily nodded his thanks and sat back on the sofa, face as white as a sheet. Crowley wasted no time in sitting down next to him and carefully taking his hand.

Crowley drew Aziraphale’s hand over to his own lap, twined their fingers together, and put his other hand over the top of Aziraphale’s. The angel’s hand was cold between his, and Crowley could feel how weak his friend’s aura was, pale and shallow in some indescribable way.

He took a deep breath and opened himself, letting his power flow into Aziraphale. He felt it brush over raw areas that prickled uncomfortably, and he focussed his power there, mending bone, muscle, and skin with a brush of his aura. Beside him, he heard Aziraphale let out a relieved-sounding sigh.

Crowley kept it up for over a minute and then glanced up and over at Aziraphale to see how he was doing. The deep bite mark in Aziraphale’s shoulder was almost completely gone, and some colour had returned to his cheeks. The angel’s aura had strengthened too, though much of its missing lustre would be regained by a solid nap and some cream cakes. Aziraphale’s hand warmed steadily between his, until Crowley felt his own fingers grow cold in comparison.

Crowley was beginning to feel himself run low on power—he again regretted having taken the time to heal himself earlier—so he slowly tapered off the amount he was pouring into Aziraphale until the connection between them faded and blinked out.

Aziraphale let out a breath, and it sounded steady. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Crowley said.

Crowley expected Aziraphale to pull his hand away now that they were finished, but instead he remained motionless, head tilted back against the sofa and eyes closed. Crowley wondered if he was expected to relinquish Aziraphale’s hand.

After what was probably an uncomfortably long period of time, Crowley decided Aziraphale was definitely waiting for him to let go and quickly did so, standing up to cover the awkwardness of the motion.

Crowley grabbed the teacup from the coffee table and pushed it into Aziraphale’s hands as the angel’s eyes blinked open. “Here you go.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s gaze hot on his collar as he straightened up and hastily racked his mind for something to busy himself with. His eyes fell on where his begonia was lying not far away on the carpet, soil scattered around it, and he crossed to it.

He righted the pot, gently gathered up the brittle remains of the plant and placed them back inside, and miracled the soil off his pristine carpet with a thought, funnelling it back into the pot. When the last clumps of earth had fallen back into place, he carefully took the pot over to the windowsill and slid it back into its spot by the others.

All of his plants were equally withered, stems brown and brittle, and Crowley made a show of frowning down at their crinkled leaves and poking at their hollow branches, acutely aware that Aziraphale was still watching him from the sofa.

Aziraphale quietly cleared his throat. “Crowley.”

“Hmm?” Crowley asked, running a hand along his African viola’s crinkled leaves and willing them to live again. The leaves turned flush and green beneath his touch, and Crowley felt what little magic he had left deplete further.

“What you said,” Aziraphale began haltingly, “when you and he were…talking to me.”

Crowley hastily touched his shrivelled haworthia and poured power into it, determined to run himself dry before he acknowledged what Aziraphale was talking about. “Which, ah, which part?” he asked evasively.

“You know which part.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise and moved his hand to the remains of his hoya. He was running very low on power now, and he felt his chest begin to tighten as the plant’s leaves greened and thickened under his touch.

“Did you…mean it?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly.

Crowley froze, a hand halfway to his shrivelled hibiscus. And then he asked himself: _had_ he meant it?

He hadn’t intended to say it. He hadn’t ever really even _thought_ it before. But once the words had crossed Crawleigh’s lips, Crowley hadn’t given his own response a second thought—he’d just known he didn’t want Aziraphale to hear those words from someone who didn’t mean them, from someone who didn’t _care_ like he did.

And that was what it all came down to. Crowley didn’t know if he loved Aziraphale, but he _did_ know that he _cared_ a great deal for him, far more than he had any right to. He cared about Aziraphale’s wellbeing and happiness, he cared whenever the angel was slighted or injured, and he cared about his own future, and what it might look like if Aziraphale wasn’t in it.

He tried not to think too much about that particular scenario, but that had been the future he’d found himself facing when he stepped foot in Crawleigh’s world. Had Crowley not been able to return, or if Crawleigh had succeeded in killing Aziraphale while Crowley was still trapped…

Crowley’s eyes dropped to the wrinkled, brittle leaves of his hibiscus.

He had spent the last six millennia trying to teach himself how not to care about things. The cities he lived in were razed to the ground, the possessions he cherished were eaten away by sheer time, and the people he rubbed shoulders with died around him like fruit flies. But Crowley had never been any good at emotionally detaching himself from the world.

He had loved Eden, and that had led to his Fall, so he had promised himself he would never care that much about anything ever again. And though he couldn’t stop himself from caring about the world, he never again allowed himself to think of his affection in permanent terms. It helped that anything he loved turned to dust before he had the chance to get too attached. The world changed quickly, and as time unspooled into centuries and then millennia, Crowley had learned to care about things with the full understanding that they would not last forever. This prevented too deep of an attachment, and thereby saved a lot of heartache. Needless to say, this method failed spectacularly where Aziraphale was concerned.

Crowley had quickly become far too invested in Aziraphale’s wellbeing, to the extent that he hadn’t been able to emotionally detach himself and hadn’t really wanted to. Aziraphale had drawn out of Crowley a part of himself that he hadn’t even known was there, and he hadn’t wanted to lose that—he hadn’t wanted to lose _Aziraphale_. He knew there wasn’t much in himself that Aziraphale probably saw a great deal of value in—he _was_ a demon, after all—but Crowley had always been an optimist. He’d hoped that, maybe, if he just cared enough, he could keep them together by sheer force of will.

And then Crawleigh had sauntered into his life and torn apart all those tenuous hopes. Crowley had found himself in his double’s demolished London, where the only way out was through Lucifer himself. It was as much a test of his resolve as he could imagine, but Crowley knew that where there was a will there was a way, and he was willing to do whatever was necessary to get back to Aziraphale, if he had to move Heaven and Earth to do it.

But then, in the bowels of his own, familiar Hell, Aziraphale had looked back and forth between the Crowley that had taken the life of his own Aziraphale and the Crowley who would give his life for his, and chosen the former. And, for the first time, Crowley had realised that it didn’t matter how much he cared. Crawleigh didn’t give a rat’s arse whether Aziraphale lived or died, but Aziraphale had chosen him over Crowley anyway—Aziraphale hadn’t even been _able to tell the difference_ between them.

And when Aziraphale had left him there, the flaming sword pointed at his throat, Crowley had suddenly felt his entire world drop out from under him. Because, when no one and nothing had been there for him, _Aziraphale_ had been there, and he hadn’t been sure what he was supposed to do if Aziraphale truly wanted no part of him. Because, what if, in the end, Aziraphale cared no more than Crawleigh did?

Crowley looked down at his withered hibiscus and let out a silent breath, his back still to Aziraphale.

He’d allowed himself to care too much, and he knew he was paying the price at last. He’d once entertained the notion that Aziraphale might care for him too, but he’d seen the look of confusion in Aziraphale’s eyes as first Crawleigh and then Crowley had made their matching declarations. Not a look of understanding, or hope, or even pity— _confusion_. He’d looked back and forth between them and _not even understood_ how Crowley could have said such a thing. And now Crowley knew that any notions of Aziraphale caring for him in return had been even more farfetched than he’d imagined. If Aziraphale hadn’t even realised the extent to which Crowley cared for him, how could he expect even a sliver of that in return?

Crowley wished everything would just go back to the way it had been before. He wanted to be free to care for Aziraphale and pretend that Aziraphale might care in return. He wanted to go back to driving Aziraphale to the Ritz and sitting watching him read his favourite books. He wanted to listen to Aziraphale harp on about the terrible music those Americans were making these days and take him to the British Museum so they could make fun of the incorrect artefact labels. Blast it all, he even wanted to make Aziraphale as many cups of tea as the angel could possibly drink. He wanted it so badly his chest hurt, and only now did he properly understand that he’d been a fool to think those things might ever have been his.

Crowley swallowed heavily. He’d been damned since the moment Crawleigh opened his mouth, but if he was damned, he supposed miserably, he might as well be damned for telling the truth.

“Yeah,” he said. “I—I think I did.”

There was a long moment of silence. Crowley bit his lip and looked down at the hibiscus. He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale was going to react, and prepared himself for the worst.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said after a long moment. “I didn’t know that.”

Crowley didn’t respond straight away, instead pouring life back into his hibiscus until he felt himself begin to grow a little dizzy with the effort.

“Is…” Crowley licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Uh, is that okay?”

Aziraphale’s response was quicker this time: “Yes, of course.”

Crowley ran a finger along the edge of one of his hibiscus’s ridged leaves and supposed he should have anticipated that response. Aziraphale _was_ an angel, after all. He couldn’t exactly go around dissuading people of their affections. And they’d been friends for so long that he’d probably want to let him down easy.

Crowley heard Aziraphale get up from the sofa. “My dear,” he said carefully.

“It’s okay,” Crowley said quickly, feeling his heart constrict in his chest. “You can go. I—I get it.” _I’m a demon, so what do I know about love anyway? Besides, you’ll probably have to smite me one of these days. Attachment is ridiculous._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could tell he was drawing nearer.

Crowley hastily moved to his next plant, a shrivelled split-leaf philodendron. He knew what Aziraphale was going to do, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. The angel would sit him down and very carefully and patiently explain that it was okay for Crowley to feel this way, but Aziraphale just didn’t feel the same in return. And if he was lucky—or perhaps exceptionally unlucky—Aziraphale would say that they could work through this together and still be friends.

Except Crowley didn’t want to “work through” it, and he didn’t know if he could stand the kindness and pity in Aziraphale’s eyes as he rejected him.

“Please, Zira, I’d rather you just go,” Crowley said, voice not as steady as he would have liked. He touched the philodendron, and as he poured life into it he felt his power run dangerously low. He shivered as the backlash hit him, a sharp grating feeling in his chest.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said kindly, and Crowley knew that the angel was directly behind him.

Crowley fixed his gaze on the edge of the philodendron’s pot and put a hand on it for support, terrified of what would happen next. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut as he fought against the tears he felt building behind his sinuses. He knew he was about to lose Aziraphale and a large part of himself along with the angel, and he didn’t know if he could take it.

“Look at me,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s touch on his shoulder.

Crowley shivered and wished he was wearing his sunglasses. Better yet, he wished he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere miles away where he could pretend all this wasn’t happening.

But Aziraphale’s touch was persistent, and he began gently turning Crowley around.

Crowley went unwillingly, until finally he was facing Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t bear to look him in the eye, though, so he fixed his gaze on Aziraphale’s shoes even though he wasn’t more than a foot away.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, voice unbelievably kind. He put a hand on Crowley’s chin and began lifting his gaze up.

Crowley let him, until, finally, he reluctantly met Aziraphale’s gaze. Crowley was aware that he must look a mess—he was trembling a little from overexerting himself magically, and the terror in his eyes must have been clear, a few tears beginning to streak down his cheeks, but the look in Aziraphale’s eyes was unfathomably kind and warm.

“I think I might feel the same,” Aziraphale confessed, and kissed him.

 

***

 

Aziraphale’s feathers were soft under Crowley’s fingers, the vanes silky and smooth. As Crowley ran his forefinger and thumb down each feather, he banished the blotches of blood and soot from the vanes and mended any broken quills.

The wings of angels, both Fallen and not, were notoriously hard to look after and particularly impervious to miracles. This was very handy in some cases—such as preventing tampering during flight—but very burdensome in others, such as healing. Wings _could_ be healed with miracles, but it required a great deal of concentrated effort to get anything to stick.

Crowley ran his fingers carefully down another of Aziraphale’s feathers, wishing away the smear of blood along one side. Cleaning was easy enough, as long as it was just pulling material off the feathers, but healing broken quills or, worse, broken bones, was exhausting and time-consuming. Crowley had already spent some time earlier that morning working on the deep bite marks on the leading edge of Aziraphale’s right wing, and was taking a break by preening through the rest of Aziraphale’s feathers and pulling out any too damaged to heal.

“Mm, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes?” One of Aziraphale’s feathers came loose under Crowley’s gentle touch and he transferred it to the small heap next to him on the bed.

“Why is there a television in your bedroom?”

Crowley continued working his way along Aziraphale’s secondaries. “It’s a thing humans do.”

“Hmm.” A moment later: “But do you use it? Why not just use the one in the lounge?”

“Humans,” Crowley informed the angel as he ran his fingers down another feather, “are lazy. And if you hadn’t noticed, the telly in the lounge is not in any condition for watching.”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise but fell silent.

They were sitting on the bed in Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale perched on the edge while Crowley sat behind him on the mattress. They’d decided this was the best place for the preening, and had moved there after falling asleep together on the sofa the previous night.

Crowley was still reeling a little from the revelations of yesterday, but had regained some of his demonic powers overnight and had jumped at the chance to spend several hours sitting with Aziraphale and combing through the angel’s feathers one by one. The simplicity of the task, combined with the knowledge that he was taking care of his angel, made it the perfect task to busy his hands with while his heart soared and his brain processed.

“Are you sure you don’t want a book or something?” Crowley asked after a long silence, a little unnerved by Aziraphale’s quietness and the fact that he couldn’t see his face. “This is going to take a while longer.”

“No, that’s perfectly all right,” Aziraphale replied calmly, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

Crowley bit the inside of his mouth and kept his gaze focussed on the next of Aziraphale’s secondaries as he ran it through his fingers, banishing the dark smear of soot from the brilliant white vanes.

Aziraphale sat quietly, occasionally shifting a little or scratching his nose, but he seemed content to just sit there and let Crowley go through his feathers one by one. Crowley was happy to do it, but the silence was giving him altogether too much time to reflect on the events of the last few days. His mind slowly slid from happy matters to less pleasant ones, and the light feeling in his stomach started to evaporate.

“Er, Zira?” Crowley asked after a long moment, running his fingers down another feather and spending a moment straightening a bent quill. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Crowley hesitated, fingers pausing on the feather he’d just healed.

“What does my aura feel like to you?”

He saw Aziraphale turn his head slightly in surprise.

“Is it…” Crowley forcefully returned his gaze to Aziraphale’s wing and moved on to the next feather, his voice losing some of its strength, “…cold?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale replied, a little sternly, “Whyever would you ask that?”

Crowley opened his mouth to say that it was for no reason in particular, but he knew Aziraphale would see through the lie immediately. Instead, he ran his fingers down Aziraphale’s feather, stroking the vanes until it lay smoothly next to its fellows.

“Crawleigh’s was,” Crowley said at last.

Aziraphale shifted on the edge of the bed, one of his wings twitching slightly. “You’re not him, Crowley.”

“No,” Crowley agreed quickly. “But…our auras must have been close, right? They fooled you.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley nervously ran his fingers down the next of the angel’s feathers, hoping he wouldn’t pull away. He didn’t, but when he responded his voice was heavy. “Below was messing with my head, that’s all.”

Crowley digested that. “So…?”

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and this time there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “Your aura isn’t cold. It’s quite warm, actually, but…comfortably so. Like…like a nice cup of tea.”

Crowley felt something like relief pass through him, followed by a slight warmth in his cheeks. He gently ran his fingers down another feather. “Oh.”

Aziraphale made an amused noise and Crowley found himself smiling a little as he continued to work his way through Aziraphale’s beautiful feathers, restoring them one by one to a state that rivalled Crowley’s own.

They stayed that way for a few more long moments, until, slowly, against his wishes, Crowley’s thoughts slid inexorably back onto unpleasant ground.

“Aziraphale?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes?”

Crowley ran his fingers along another feather and it shifted under his touch. “Do you…why do you think the sword wouldn’t light for me?”

The feather shifted under his touch again, and Crowley carefully tugged on it. It wiggled but wouldn’t come free.

“It’s a divine blade,” Aziraphale explained. “It takes more than power to light.”

“I know,” Crowley said, and tugged on the feather harder; it was clearly unmoored, but refused to pull free, “but it’s not like I’m an innocent.” Crowley gave the feather a sharp yank and it came free. Aziraphale flinched at the same moment, and Crowley realised belatedly that it must have still been partially attached.

“Crap, Aziraphale, I’m sorry,” Crowley said hastily as he saw the bright red tip of the feather in his hand.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said, but flinched again as Crowley dropped the feather and slipped his hand into the small recess it had just vacated, reaching up towards where the feather had been anchored. Soon he was up to his elbow in Aziraphale’s feathers as he prodded around experimentally with his fingertips. One of them touched something sticky and warm, and Crowley quickly funnelled some power through his fingers to heal the injury he had inadvertently caused.

Crowley pulled his arm free, miracled Aziraphale’s blood off his fingertips, and hastily began combing Aziraphale’s feathers back into place. “Sorry,” he repeated.

Aziraphale shook his wings slightly, and his feathers smoothed back into place.

“Anyway,” Crowley repeated once he’d resumed his place in Aziraphale’s secondaries, “It’s not like I haven’t killed people—lots of people. I mean, you alone I’ve killed loads of times.”

“You’ve _discorporated_ me loads of times,” Aziraphale corrected.

“What’s the difference?” It still _felt_ like killing, as far as Crowley was concerned—a little too much like killing, actually.

“The difference is, I come back later,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And you know that.”

“Okay,” Crowley allowed. “But I’ve _actually_ killed people too. Humans. Like Ophelia Westfeld, or that bloke Gordianus from Carthage.”

“You know as well as I do that Ophelia was an accident, and wasn’t that Roman fellow the one who tried to poison you and then cornered you in an alley?”

“Er,” said Crowley. “You’re thinking of Faustus of Ostia. Gordianus was the one who I shot during archery practice.”

“Well, then Faustus was definitely self-defence, and I seem to recall you tried to save that other fellow once you’d realised what had happened.”

Crowley frowned and ran his fingers over another of Aziraphale’s feathers. “What about Charles Hindegaard, then? I definitely killed him.”

“I seem to recall he was trying to kill me at the time,” Aziraphale said mildly.

“So I suppose that doesn’t count either?”

“You were a little upset.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m—I dunno—a pure spirit or anything,” Crowley argued. “So what if it wasn’t premeditated? I still _did_ it.” Crowley could still remember doing it, actually, after all these years. He could remember all of them, all the lives he had ever taken, far more vividly than he cared to.

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that, my dear.”

“How about those soldiers during the Punic Wars, then? Or the Thirty Years’ War? Or the First World War? There were eight in there. Or—or Richard Burbank? Or Salvadore Perez? Thandiwe Nkosi? Frank Dartmouth? Batsheva of Gibeon? That grocer on Howell Lane?”

Crowley could feel himself beginning to get a little upset, and he took a deep breath to calm himself before he could yank another of Aziraphale’s beautiful feathers out. He knew this shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it did—particularly since discussing it was putting a damper on what should have been an untroubled day—but he couldn’t help it. Crawleigh had been _right there_ , and Crowley had _had the sword in his hand_. He could have killed him right then and there, and saved a lot of heartache for himself and Aziraphale both. If their places had been reversed, Aziraphale would have killed Crawleigh without a second thought. But when the moment had come…the sword had refused to light.

“I just—I don’t understand,” Crowley said heavily, looking down Aziraphale’s feathers and feeling increasingly poorly about having brought the subject up. “I’m a demon. I should have been able to light it.”

Aziraphale’s wings shifted as he turned his head towards Crowley slightly. “Crowley, do you know how many humans I’ve killed?”

Crowley shrugged and carefully cleaned another of Aziraphale’s feathers. “Not really, no.”

Aziraphale sighed, and his wings drooped slightly. “Me neither. That’s…I think that’s a difference between us, Crowley. You remember their names.”

Surprised, Crowley took a moment for that to sink in. He ran his fingers along another of Aziraphale’s feathers. “You honestly don’t remember?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not really.”

“Huh.”

Aziraphale shifted on the edge of the bed. “Just because you’ve killed,” he explained, “doesn’t mean you’re a killer. I think that’s what the sword needs to light—it needs to have intent, yes, but also strength of _will_. You need to be prepared to actually do the deed.”

Crowley was silent, quietly working his way further through Aziraphale’s feathers. He supposed he’d always known he had more of a regard for human life than Aziraphale, oddly enough, but he hadn’t thought the disparity was so large.

“Maybe you just…don’t have it in you,” Aziraphale suggested. “But that’s okay. Cold-blooded murder is something all its own.”

“But…you lit it so easily,” Crowley protested. “You’re an _angel_ , and shouldn’t _I_ —?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale broke in gently. “Do you think that’s something I’m _proud_ of?”

Crowley fell silent, shifting to another section of feathers and concentrating on doing a thorough job. Aziraphale seemed satisfied that he’d made his point, and settled back into his place on the edge of the bed.

“But what if…” Crowley started nervously after a long moment, “what if something like this happens again? I had Crawleigh _right there_ , I could have finished him off, but the sword—and _he_ could light it, and what if you’re in danger and I—”

Aziraphale’s wings half-folded as he twisted to better face Crowley. He pulled himself further back onto the bed, looping his wing around Crowley until they were sitting side by side. Crowley eyed Aziraphale uncertainly, but Aziraphale only wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. It was surprisingly comfortable, and Crowley felt himself leaning closer automatically.

“Now you listen to me, Crowley. If anything like this ever happens again, just direct whoever it is to me and I’ll kill them myself.”

Crowley opened his mouth to clarify his concern, but Aziraphale held up a hand and continued over him.

“And if something happens to me and you’re on your own, then you’ll either find it in you or you won’t, and I want you to know that it’s perfectly okay either way. Just because I can light the sword, or because Crawleigh could, doesn’t mean you have to be able to as well.” The hand Aziraphale had on Crowley’s far shoulder rubbed up and down reassuringly.

“You’re not Crawleigh; you’re nothing like him, please believe me. He was…well, never mind what he was. You’re _you_ , and I don’t want you to try to change to be more like him, or more like me for that matter. I like you as you are far better than I liked him, and frankly I don’t know what I’d do with two of myself.” Aziraphale laughed a little, nervously, and Crowley realised with surprise that Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was actually doing a good job of comforting him.

“Probably try to lure me up to Heaven,” Crowley suggested. “And send you to an alternate universe.”

Aziraphale just stared at him for a few seconds, and then he finally seemed to put together what Crowley was saying. He laughed and gave Crowley’s shoulders a squeeze. “I hope not.”

Crowley smiled a little and felt himself relax when he met Aziraphale’s gaze. He leaned against his angel and drank in the steady warmth of Aziraphale’s presence. He was so very glad he hadn’t ended up trapped in that other universe after all. Not only would he have missed Aziraphale desperately, but he would have missed this new…whatever this was between them.

Crowley turned his head up and gave Aziraphale a small, tentative kiss on the cheek. Aziraphale smiled and squeezed his shoulder again, and when Crowley nestled the side of his head into the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder, he felt the angel carefully plant a matching kiss in his hair.

Crowley let out a contented sigh. They stayed that way for a long moment, Aziraphale’s half-preened wing slowly draping itself around Crowley’s shoulders.

“So, angel…what do we do now?” Crowley asked at last. He didn’t have to clarify what he meant.

Aziraphale ran the side of his thumb along Crowley’s shoulder. “What do you want to do, my dear?”

Crowley let out a breath. “I dunno.”

There was a brief silence and then Aziraphale tilted his head over towards Crowley. “How about we start with the Ritz?”


	10. Epilogue: A New Beginning

Mephistopheles could not believe his luck.

After Behemoth’s men had caught him above ground against express orders to remain in Hell, he’d been certain his number was finally up. The Serpent didn’t practise mercy, especially towards second-rate demons who liked humanity more than they had any business doing.

But, after the emperor himself had sent Mephistopheles to his chambers to be dealt with later…Crawleigh simply hadn’t arrived.

Almost two days after Mephistopheles had been left bound and shivering, waiting for certain death, someone had finally come for him. Except it hadn’t been Crawleigh, or even Asmodeus or one of the other archdemons. Mephistopheles had never met the excited-looking, mid-ranking demon who’d asked his name, though once he’d stammered it out she’d broken his chains.

A little alarmingly, his name had turned out to hold some sort of significance for nearly everyone he encountered, and he had found himself quickly shuttled up the ranks, eventually returning to the hands of Asmodeus.

It was at this point that the archdemon had informed him that the king had been looking for him. Mephistopheles didn’t realise the importance of the title _king_ versus the usual _emperor_ until he was led into the audience hall and cast to the floor in front of someone who was decidedly _not_ Crawleigh.

Once Lucifer had confirmed his identity, Mephistopheles had found himself with a golden ticket to the one place he desperately wanted to go: Earth. And, as if this wasn’t the single greatest stroke of luck Mephistopheles had ever been blessed with, it was coupled with a blanket ban on demonic activity on, or visitation to, Earth—except for him, _expressly_.

Mephistopheles was still trying to piece together what exactly had transpired to land him in this singularly wonderful position, but he limited how much he prodded at it, lest someone should think about it too hard and revoke his sudden privilege.

Now, Mephistopheles stumbled across the rubble-strewn streets of an Earth city he had last seen in its prime. He was still shaking a little with disbelief and could barely take his eyes off the wide, glorious expanse of brilliant blue sky above him.

Birds sang somewhere not far away, and Mephistopheles hoped that humanity would soon return to reclaim their city. They’d fled to the countryside to avoid the concentrated demonic activity around the cities, but with Hell under new management it was possible they might be able to resume their previous progress.

Mephistopheles had just passed a large collapsed building and was watching the progression of a rabbit among the bricks when there was a loud clatter from behind him.

Mephistopheles spun, immediately going on the defensive. He quickly cast his eyes around the street behind him, where the sound had come from, but it was deserted apart from a few birds taking flight, evidently spooked by the noise.

After staring at the motionless street another long minute, Mephistopheles slowly turned back around and took another step forward.

There was a second clatter, louder this time, and when he spun again he saw a rock skip to a stop a few metres away.

Mephistopheles blinked at it in confusion, and that was when someone grabbed him from behind. An arm wrapped itself tightly around his chest, yanking him half a step backwards, and it was joined a second later by a sword at his throat.

Mephistopheles nearly jumped out of his skin and then froze as his attacker pressed the flat of the blade against his throat, heart hammering.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” a female voice demanded into his ear.

Mephistopheles swallowed, feeling the cold steel of the sword against his skin as he did so. “I—my name’s Mephistopheles. And I—I’m just taking a walk.”

“You’re a demon,” the voice asserted.

“Y—yes.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

Mephistopheles blinked in confusion. “Rest of—?”

His attacker shook him slightly. “The demons, the rest of the demons. Where’d they all go?”

“Oh,” Mephistopheles said. “There’s been a—a ban. No demons are allowed on the Earth for a hundred years.”

His attacker was silent for a moment, and Mephistopheles swallowed again, nervously.

“Then why are you here?”

“I—uh—I’m the official liaison to Earth,” Mephistopheles said honestly, hoping this was the answer that would allow him to keep his corporation. He wasn’t sure if he’d be permitted back on Earth again if he lost it, official liaison or not.

“How’d that happen?” The voice sounded almost confused.

“Lucifer himself appointed me,” Mephistopheles admitted. “I—I don’t know why, but he was very insistent.”

The sword moved a few inches away from his throat, and Mephistopheles took a deep, relieved breath, hoping that meant his attacker would shortly release her arm from around his chest.

“Lucifer sent you? What about Crawleigh?”

“He’s—I don’t know, but word is he’s dead.”

“Did you see him?” the voice asked, suddenly urgent. “In the last few days?”

“The Serpent?” Mephistopheles asked, puzzled. “Three days ago, yes. He—” Mephistopheles remembered the peculiar wink the emperor had given him. “He was acting…strangely.”

His attacker let out a relieved sigh and released him. Mephistopheles hastily took a few steps forwards and spun, one hand going to his throat to double-check that the edge of the blade hadn’t nicked him. He took another step back as he saw his attacker’s white wings.

“You—you’re an angel.”

His attacker rolled her eyes and sheathed her sword. “Who were you expecting, with all the demons banned from the Earth?”

Mephistopheles blinked. “Well, I—who exactly are you, then?”

“Sandelaphon,” the angel identified herself, brushing something off her sleeve. “I’m—I guess you could say I’m Heaven’s official liaison to Earth.”

Mephistopheles blinked again. “Heaven has liaisons to Earth?”

Sandelaphon grimaced. “Not in so many words, but I’d be surprised if there were another angel on the planet right now.”

“Oh.”

Sandelaphon was frowning at him now. “Where’s your beard?”

“Pardon?”

“I thought all demons were supposed to have beards.” She mimed a goatee.

“The Serpent shaved his,” Mephistopheles said, raising a hand self-consciously to his own freshly shaved chin. “So everyone did. Changing fashions, you know.”

Sandelaphon raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. Anyway, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stepped forward and extended her hand.

Mephistopheles took a half step back. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“Getting to know the neighbours.” She was still holding out her hand, expression open.

Mephistopheles eyed her hand warily. “But you’re an angel. Aren’t we supposed to be…” He moved his arms back and forth in a rather poor imitation of fighting—he had practically no combat experience besides ducking and running away.

Sandelaphon shrugged. “Probably, but I don’t really fancy it, do you?”

Mephistopheles kept his gaze on her extended hand and found himself hoping that this wasn’t a trick after all.

“The way I see it,” Sandelaphon continued when she saw his indecision, “we’re the only supernatural beings on the Earth right now. We’ll probably have the place to ourselves for a couple of decades at least. Do you want to spend all that time looking over your shoulder?”

Mephistopheles blinked. “…No.”

Sandelaphon made a _well, there you have it_ expression. She was still holding her hand out.

Mephistopheles hesitated a second longer and then took a hesitant step forward. This was followed by a second step, and, staying as far away as possible, in case the angel decided to draw her sword again, Mephistopheles very carefully reached out and shook Sandelaphon’s hand. It was soft and warm, and Mephistopheles blinked again, in surprise; he’d been expecting the firm, calloused grip of a warrior.

“There,” Sandelaphon said brightly. “Now we’re both better off, see?”

“I…see,” Mephistopheles said slowly, still trying to work out if this was some sort of trap. It seemed a little overly complicated, though; if she’d wanted to kill him, she’d had plenty of opportunity to do so when her sword had been at his throat.

“Do you want a drink?” Sandelaphon asked.

Mephistopheles blinked and returned his attention to the angel. “A drink? Like…together?”

Sandelaphon huffed in exasperation. “Well, I’m hardly going to sit there and watch you drink all by yourself, am I?”

“But—you’re an _angel_ ,” Mephistopheles repeated, confused. “I’m a _demon_. We don’t—”

“—sit around at tables, talking?” Sandelaphon finished.

Mephistopheles nodded.

Sandelaphon shrugged. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either, but who’s to say we can’t try something new?”

Mephistopheles looked at the angel’s open, honest expression, and decided that, for good or ill, he believed her. “Okay. As long as we can stay where we can see the sky.”

Sandelaphon brightened. “Excellent! I found some bottles of beer in one of the taverns in the next street.” She turned and strode a few paces away before realising that Mephistopheles wasn’t following her. She stopped and turned back, raising her arms in exasperation. “Well, come on, Meph!”

Mephistopheles scrunched his nose but began picking his way towards her over the rubble-strewn road. “It’s _Mephistopheles_ ,” he corrected.

“Sure thing, Meph,” Sandelaphon said cheerily, and once he’d caught up they began moving down the street together. “What do you know about whales?”

“Whales?” Mephistopheles echoed as he stepped over a pane of remarkably unbroken glass. “Like the animal?”

“Yes, like the animal. I was thinking about going to the ocean…”

 

 

[Sandelaphon & Mephistopheles](http://petimetrek.tumblr.com/post/165929294181/little-thing-i-drew-for-improbabledreams900-and), by the lovely [petimetrek](http://petimetrek.tumblr.com/)

(added a fortnight after original posting)


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